Warm Ice Cream
                                                                                                                                                
The Good Humor ice cream truck, gleaming white,
chocolate pops painted on sides and back,
whose bells jangled after the second world war,
heralding the Good Humor Man he jumping out
in wilted white uniform,from the roofless, windowless cab
up front, pushing his white policeman's cap back
on his sweaty forehead, and I, running to our courtyard,
bellowing, "Mom," my mother,
(knowing my voice from all the other kids),
appearing at our second floor window,
throwing down a dime twisted in newspaper
so it fell without rolling, and I could find it.
I and five friends, having halted a grand game of jump rope
to join the line of excited children, flushed from play,
and mothers, who minutes ago sat on folding chairs,
gossiping in groups, my feet shifting impatiently
as the Good Humor Man closed the side door, walked around,
opened the back door, reached into the recesses
of his refrigerated truck, pulled out strawberry sundae Dixie cups
for my friend Joyce and her sister, Barbara, the vapor
from the ice escaping like smoke. I, standing in line
on Andrews Avenue, anticipating my toasted almond pop
from my Good Humor Man, different from last year,
different from next, my lovely Good Humor Man,
providing our warm afternoon ritual in the Bronx,
pleasurable and right, as we played at our child's work,
safe from the turmoils in Europe, Asia, Africa,
protected, cradled, though we never knew it,
the warmth from that ice cream building our bones.