Soda Fountain Poem

Soda-Fountain of Youth

In my unfinished basement, amongst old couches,
used bed frames, and unfinished photo albums,
contained in dirty, dusty racks.
I found soda-fountain quality ice cream dishes,
made from a thick glass with sturdy stems and a
well to collect accumulations of ice cream.
About 24 of them, tucked away for no occassion.
I was eleven when I found them,
and I envisioned an entire after-school-special around these dishes.

First, flyers would be sent out on pink parchment, paisley patterned
proclaiming “You’re invited to Amy’s Ice Cream Party”
Then, it would be the day of the affair,
and my mom would drive me to the market.
I’d allow my fingers to grip onto cold cartons of rocky road,
golden vanilla, cookie dough, triple chocolate
until we paid for them.
Containers of whipped cream, jimmies, cherries,
walnuts, toffee bits, and other morsels
that even now make me hungry
all in the trunk, melting quickly.
I’d set up balloons in the early evening,
pastel pinks and purples to match plates we picked up.
I’d lay out all the dessert dishes, spoons beside each one.
And then, the doorbell would ring,
giddy girls hugging me with genuine excitement.
Soon, calamity, with dozens of girls,
sprawled out on our sofas,
gossipping about boys and confessing that
we just maybe liked the ones who teased us when we were ten.
Later on, we’d serve ourselves, a veritable buffet,
ice cream until our guts busted,
caramel drizzle and warm hot fudge.
Girls with eyes too big,
Pouring M&Ms, syrup, fruit into their glasses.
Tongues savoring something better than
cafeteria food and boxed lunches,
the ice cream colliding with the toppings
making a soup that stayed still until scooped up in spoonfuls.
And those big-eyed girls, reduced to sugar-comas
would thank me for an excellent event,
telling me that they’d see me in school and at their next party.
I’d watch them from my porch, driving off mechanically
one by one with their mothers, into the corners of our small town.

Though the elements came together effortlessly,
that event never took place.
I was never revered in my junior high,
in fact teased for being different, chubby, a brace-face,
boy crazy. Stupid. Ugly.
In my dank basement,
the answer to all my insecurities lied between those racks,
but we never once made an effort to clean the glasses,
open up our family malt-shop.
I never once was queen bee, laughing over a sundae.
I don’t know if having the dishes at my disposal
would have made a difference in my younger years,

shaped the supposed soda-fountain of my youth.
But, still I am amazed that the minds of children
just want social, surprise, sweet, sundaes almost, always.