I am in the home I’ve always called home
and the ice-cream truck is driving past the gate as I write
I glanced at it in nostalgia
and realized it was not, in fact,
the exact one from my childhood.
This one is green. Small.
The one I remember was yellow.
And of course I remember it being much bigger.
I remember hearing the tone around four or five PM,
running to my mom or sister
asking for R4
and running outside before it got too far away.
R4 doesn’t get me much anymore
but there is something so admirable about
how fearless and shameless I was
in going for what I wanted.
I struggle to count now many things,
have driven so slowly past me
only for me to watch them
frozen by pride
of it getting too far before I catch it.
And it always does.
Because I don’t run anymore.