Running in the Late Afternoon

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,

people, experiences

have driven so slowly past me

only for me to watch them

frozen by pride

by fear

of it getting too far before I catch it.

And it always does.


Because I don’t run anymore.



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