I knew the sound of the ice cream truck
not the tune it played,
tra-la tra-la-la-la
it was the weight of ice cream pressing tires onto tired suburban pavement
the subsonic rustle of paper packages shifting against each other
in hidden cooler cages within
when the first sugary notes wandered through the air
I could hear the man breathing
hear his neck creak as it craned out the window
awaiting us as expectantly as though
he were the child
and we the sweet cream pushers
in grass stains and mud pie hands
sun burnt and fresh berry stained sweet
chubby fingered
two front tooth gapped
and screaming in delight for our parents' wallets.
It was the sound of dandelions bowing out of the way
to make room for stampedes of
tiny bare feet and band-aids
the sound of wind whining through ghost playground towns
where swings swayed flaccid
abandoned slides sigh into sand whipped from desolate playpens
eroding castles shift towards collapse
seesaws rock, ominously vacant
in the exodus to creamy faced
sticky bee screaming dereliction
a dozen tiny fists raised
clutching popsicle sticks in triumph.