With the unnatural, and terrifying, neon yellow hue
and the crunchy bits of toffee
this ice cream saved us time and again
during the heavy heat of India.
Our last week in the country
we got our last taste of butterscotch
and stood under the awning
of the little ice cream shop.
The sky was dark
but the street lights were blinding,
the traffic roaring.
A young boy stood in the parking lot
with a vendor tray strapped around his neck.
No customers.
No attending notice
of the lonely boy
selling goods that no one really wants.
I stood and stared into the night,
didn’t even notice Collin had left my side.
I next saw him with a second ice cream cone in his hand.
He paid the boy notice,
paid him attention with an ice cream cone.
While we finished our butterscotch wonder
we walked by the young vendor.
For a few moments he felt enjoyment
standing under the awning
with butterscotch in hand.
For those minutes he didn’t have to sell,
didn’t have to worry,
didn’t have to linger around hoping for the sale of useless goods.
He was once again a child, like any other,
enjoying the cold touch of ice cream against his tongue, throat,
as the butterscotch melted,
sticking to his fingers and dropping into the vendor box.
