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By Lisa Montagne, 2014
That night was like all others before it:
I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream!
He cried, hands raised, a preacher in the pulpit.
He proclaimed vanilla, praised that night’s dream
Of chocolate sauce ribbons, melty-sweet,
Of mouthfuls true, of mouthfuls bright. Scrawled
Across the couch, he said, clutching his treat,
Life is not worth living without this right,
Mumbling into his sleeve: Diabetes
Be damned! Then he slept, head wedged between bowl
And cushion…television lights fleetly
Flickering on his face and on his soul.
From my perch, in the crook of his strong legs,
I noted the spoon, a lonely artifact
Drifting in the demolished dregs
Of just dessert.
