From the window
of an ice cream shop,
I watch tradition unfold.
Passersby, strangers to us,
flood the tiny structure
to share about one man
and ice cream,
the one who gave them jobs,
gave them leisure,
gave them upside-down banana splits.
They thank us,
the trail of successors,
the ones who knew him best,
the man who brought Spemonee to Auburn,
all of us grateful for those
who love ice cream so dearly,
they became part of the narrative.
From the window
of an ice cream shop
I watch a place called the Flush
fill up with the same people,
now family to us,
who used to frequent it:
students, mothers, sons,
sisters, friends,
the people who made
a shack a haven
