It is not clear to us, as porch dwelling people, <br />Whether the boy, <br /> With his sticky chin— <br /> His syrup sapped nose, <br />Has more of the cone, once frozenly atomized, <br />More in his mouth or more on the road. <br /> <br />It is amusing to watch the battle dip and grow; <br />We have even chosen sides, and Grandpa has <br /> Sided with the melting milk treat, <br /> Though I am certain the boy <br />Will whip it good, given enough time <br />And a whisking youngster’s lick. <br /> <br />The sun, like fire in our eyes, has dipped down, <br />Smacking its fearsome spirit on the distant horizon. <br /> <br />Crickets crackle, chirping changelessly, <br />The night, it roars silently; we, the placid people, <br /> Have lost side of the boy, <br /> Of his dairy delight. <br />Tomorrow we will awake to find a half-eaten <br />Cone stuck fast to the pavement, ant armies in siege. <br /> <br />And I will owe Grandpa three nickels, the laundry.<br /><br />Jonzo Bandwagoner<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/porch-dwelling/
