the daily

Firecracker ice cream truck
now accepts debit cards
and slows itself only beside
those on bikes, adults
who fan themselves, pained smile
aching from sugary concentrate
dripping down the insides,
little cup melting, its base
never solid while pink
bursts through the old floor
that leaves the palm cut
like the quick, like appointments
rushed even when patients
come fifty minutes late
as principle asks for its check
without fail, and punctuality
is a luxury sporadic, but yes,
you do what’s expected, things
that you decided were worthy
of your not-so-constant signature
inflamed with inkblot dots
when knuckles around the pen
grow white, our whipped cream.

Cat No. 79 of the 500 Cats Project

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