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.

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