When I hear the ice cream
Turkey in the Straw playing coming around
the corner, I duck
under the window curtains.
I peek at a bit of grass and the street
under the small apples on the hems.
I don’t come out until he’s gone;
I’m amazed at how still
I always am, but all the time I’m thinking
about the dollar bills in my wallet;
picturing myself out there next to his white truck;
buying a King Cone;
looking at the pictures of the ice creams
on a deep blue background;
reading the names and descriptions
of all of them, each one
shown with a bite out of it
so you can see what the inside looks like.
I would like to do this with people
so that I can see all the swimming pools inside them.
I’m hiding because I don’t want
the ice cream man to see my swimming pools.