A Simple Matter of Gassing Up - Poem: Vanilla Ice Cream

I pull into the Giant Gas Station, new groceries jostling in the back seat. I wave to Sherry whose name escapes me until she says Hi Ruth and then I remember her. She has slow-growing MS. B'ful black hair and a mother from hell.

I can't find my bonus card and I've got about 40 cents off. Finally, after chatting w the folks in the little house, no, not the gingerbread house, I drive away.

At home I realize the bonus card is on my key chain.

I could not wait to come home and write. Emailed myself this morning, Four Stories from ND, tho there are thousands to be had.

For lunch I just ate fresh fruit, peanuts and ricotta, while still listening to Sarah Bird's Daughter of



So hot I'm sitting here in my grey shorts and black tank top.

Am watching on Netflix a film called The Ant-Man and the Wasp, A Marvel Comic Film.



Costumes are great.

I'll tell ya, sitting on my red couch a big spritz of maple leaf seedlings of all sizes flung out from the spent azaleas on neighbor Nancy's lawn.

OK, time to drag my fat ass upstairs and write.

May I have a wee nap first?

Oh, you want a poem?

Bless your heart.

VANILLA ICE CREAM

It's tough getting onto
the high stool with
red cushion, but up I go,
lifted by invisible arms.

Smells of burnt coffee and
stubbed out cigarette butts
of ink print from comic books
and newspapers, The Race Track mag,
Wall Street Journal and local
Intelligencer.

Karl takes my order.
Vanilla ice cream with
chocolate syrup and a glass
of water on the side.

A fluted cup arrives and a
shiver of delight goes through
me, as if I'll die in a
diabetic coma.

Whatever will be, will be,
I think, from the newly dead
Doris Day, 97.