ICE CREAM TRUCK By Alicia Cole Ice Cream TruckThe cone is always the cone. The rhyme scheme, the metric oomph: these hold the dripping words.They’re always melting. The sonnet, the sapphic, the prose poem, the cento. Melting into the readers’ mouths.Grab one. Pay for it. Grab another. Cough up the money. All this frozen glory never comes for free. Paper Butterfly a found poemFortune smiles smirched with the gossip in the community. On your white jacket, her perfection. About the Author: ![]() |