The ice cream poem

I sat on a park bench on a normal spring day.

A boy walked by holding an ice cream cone.

I’d never seen such a perfect ice cream cone.

It was pink ice cream, covered in sprinkles.

It had two perfectly round scoops sitting atop a crunchy cone.

I wished it was mine. But he had already walked by.

I couldn’t take his ice cream cone.

And I only had $0.50.

I went home and dreamed about that ice cream cone.

I saw it every where.

With a girl in a passing car, in the hands of two little kids at the beach.

I thought about that perfect ice cream cone for months.

I got so close to ordering the ice cream for myself.

I sat outside the ice cream shop on nice evenings and listened to people order.

Three scoops of chocolate in a waffle cone.

A bowl of vanilla with whipped cream.

Still good, but not right.

I waited for the perfect time to get the perfect ice cream cone.

I saved my money carefully, and practiced my order cautiously, and prepared to walk up to the ice cream shop worker and tell them my perfect ice cream speech.

And when I finally got to the ice cream shop on the perfect day for perfect ice cream, money in hand, there was a closed sign on the door.

I stared at the menu. It was hard to see with the lights off.

But I saw a picture of my perfect ice cream cone hanging on a wall, out of reach by only a few feet and a locked door.

I started to cry.

I sat down in front of the shop. I sat there for a long time and cried.

It looked so easy. I thought it would be easy.