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:Alicia ColeAlicia Cole lives and writes in Huntsville, Alabama.  She is also a visual artist.  Her work is forthcoming in Breath & Shadow, Star*Line, and Anima.  She runs Priestess and Hierophant Press at  She has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Dwarf Star Awards, and won Honorable Mention in Hermeneutic Chaos’ Jane Lumley Prize for Emerging Writers.  She like NPR, silence, nature, boxing, and religion.