In summer, just as twilight
snuggled in each night,
we waited in blueing light
for the twinkling of bells.
A silly jingling tolled out
like a cathedral’s carillon
ringing, calling believers
in their flip-flops to gather.
Grabbing quarters bright
as chrome, we scrambled
outside and raced to catch
the slowly passing truck.
In our neighborhood—then
as now—a magical ghostly
van oozed along our street
on clouds of pebble sprinkles.
A white-haired, mustached,
jolly man put on his brakes.
Stopped. At the foot of our
own pitted asphalt driveway.
He pried open a freezer door.
Fished inside to fill each want.
What elven treasures this magus
conjured right before our eyes!
For mom, a Toasted Almond Bar.
For dad, crunchy Cookies N Creme.
Strawberry Shortcake. Coconut.
A sticky orange Creamsicle.
Before Grub Hub’s or Door Dash’s
vast choices of waitless pleasure,
this nightly ritual mesmerized us
as porch lights hypnotized moths.
Today, a different driver makes
his rounds in a knock-off pickup.
Same streets. Same tinny music
box siren song. Same fevered rush
for cash. Same honeyed marvels
hand-delivered like rare white
truffles or black watermelons
to our home’s enchanted portal.
Which was sweeter, anticipation
or the sugary post-supper treats?
Either one’s a relic to times past
when simple wonders held us fast.
/////
Jo Pitkin holds an M.F.A. from the University of Iowa’s Writer’s Workshop. She is the author of a poetry chapbook and four full-length collections, editor of Lost Orchard: Prose and Poetry from the Kirkland College Community (2014), and associate editor of Lost Orchard: Nonfiction from the Kirkland College Community (2021). Jo works as a freelance educational creating materials for K - 12 students and teachers, and she is a teaching artist at The Poetry Barn. Her poem “Good Humor” is from a manuscript that she is currently writing about the unique lake community where she grew up.
Lightwood 
For me, Creamsickle, too. Thanks!
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