orANGE cREAMSICLE

What an ice cream
truck it is -
large and boxy,
wedding-gown white,
lording over the city
block like a Presbyterian
chapel on wheels,
with a driver’s cab
high off the curb, giving
an upper-story view of
curbs standing in dandelions
and heads bobbing
a whole street ahead.
Big side-view mirrors
catch kiddy sprinters
windmilling from behind
in a dance of desperation
to the tinkly tones
of a Disney tune.

No ringing bells of days past,
no white-uniformed man
with a silvery gadget on his belt
coughing out coins for change -
instead, this is a black-eyed lady
in a flowery dress cascading
over her feet on the pedals
and crowned with an orange headscarf,
deep and delicious to the eye.

An orange creamsicle floats
through the truck’s side window
to a small upturned hand
and mouth open for bitefuls -
but it still pales to bland and melts
undelightful next to the orange
headscarf reaching to the shoulders
of our black-eyed lady.