The Ice Cream Parlor

 

 

The pie was Blueberry, warm

ala mode draping.

 

The Malted was Chocolate,

thick, and as malty as any

German Lager.

 

The Ice Cream Parlor with

chrome backed seats and

marble counter, catered to

connoisseurs and kids alike.

 

The Norwegian family

who owned the place were,

“I Remember Mamma”

lookalikes.

 

The skinny kid who consumed

this repast, basked in the

calories, carbs and protein.

 

The Confectionary

 was concocted in the

Candy Room, milk chocolate

waft through the Parlor.

 

The Tiffany lamps hung low

over booths with lighting

softened by the colored glass.

 

The romance in the booths

were with teenagers,

Ice Cream Sodas after school.

 

The El stop is no longer.

The Parlor has left for that,

“undiscovered land.”

 

The senses remain.

The El train rumbles

The tastes of homemade.

The aroma of sweets.

The touching of hands.

The scene in my, “mind’s eye.”

 

I revisit, and they ask,

“Where have you been?”

 

©TPuma/MMXXXIII