Ice Cream
I heat the spoon to cut through the ice-cream more smoothly Melt a milky path. I raise it over the stove-top which burns in deep crimson slowly warms the silver spade Then I plow, through layers of cream like some archaeologist with an unappeasable sweet-tooth I scoop and level my findings onto, apple-pie, or dark fudge, or fruits. There’s the stuff that makes the young or old, ladies and gents tongues twist, and mouths drip with anticipation. and it never last long.