The radar pitch of the ice cream truck
always rings disappointed—mawk
eighth-note counterpoint rising,
rising electric and sugar-songed,
as noble as “Turkey in the Straw”
is able to sound. A slow torpedo
exploding through the gray pigeon
afternoon, warring certain joy upon
perchance suburbia, it passes, tune
detuning, but will come round again.
Its mad-saint driver never makes money,
but the children run, and the children grin.