the sun pounded down
on the city
like an iron fist
in a velvet glove

the sounds
of the ice cream truck
crawled
ever closer
as the children
scrambled
for cash

he sits
behind the wheel
of his mobile freezer
with blank anguish
drawn in neon
across
his lined face

the heat of the day
the cheerful song
the ache of loss
thrumming
like subsonic bass
through
his every breath

bomb pops
soft serve
popsicles
and other assorted
frozen treats

yet
all he managed to serve
was a triple scoop
of inescapable void
in a waffle cone