I've imagined that God-
like an old italian man
selling ice cream on a beach
for a few dollars
to buy his wife roses-
would sing out the name
of the one thing I wanted
in a harmony
I wouldn't hear
until I saw my favorite flavor
in his cart.
Plump and rosy,
he'd smile
and squint his watery eyes,
call me bella
and hand me a scoop.
Walking away,
he'd whistle through puckered lips
a simple tune
I'd quickly forget,
licking drips of chocolate
from my wrist.
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