It is not clear to us, as porch dwelling people,
Whether the boy,
With his sticky chin—
His syrup sapped nose,
Has more of the cone, once frozenly atomized,
More in his mouth or more on the road.
It is amusing to watch the battle dip and grow;
We have even chosen sides, and Grandpa has
Sided with the melting milk treat,
Though I am certain the boy
Will whip it good, given enough time
And a whisking youngster’s lick.
The sun, like fire in our eyes, has dipped down,
Smacking its fearsome spirit on the distant horizon.
Crickets crackle, chirping changelessly,
The night, it roars silently; we, the placid people,
Have lost side of the boy,
Of his dairy delight.
Tomorrow we will awake to find a half-eaten
Cone stuck fast to the pavement, ant armies in siege.
And I will owe Grandpa three nickels, the laundry.
Jonzo Bandwagoner
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/porch-dwelling/
