At the ice cream counter the ample waitress
keeps scooping samples I don't want.
First a flavor called White House,
created by Granddad after he went to DC
at cherry blossom time. No self-respecting
tree ever produced fruits like these
red plastic chews, studding cold cotton balls
soaked in cough syrup. She chatters
about guys who stagger in for a beer,
about her favorite phosphate: Hershey's,
seltzer, scoops of vanilla. I can feel myself
getting fat. She offers yet another spoon:
an Alpine peak of Blueberry Creme. It tastes
like shaving lather. But she's friendly,
it's a Tuesday afternoon; a few stools over,
an elderly couple admire their twin
dripping sundaes. She strews rainbow
jimmies for a prancing toddler, even
adorns the dish with a shimmery ribbon.
The bell over the door tinkles; in strut
stubbled guys in overalls, catcalling
for triple dips of White House.

by my shoulder, my slender son solemnly
celebrates turning thirteen-and-a-half
with what to him is the tallest, creamiest
of chocolate milkshakes, the kind the angels
must sip in heaven. One taste and I feel
like rushing to the dentist, but my son
can handle sweetness. Happy half-birthday,
son. You're halfway between so many
things. I count out bills, stack emptied
spoons. Soon you'll slurp the last drops
and leave, the bell ringing behind you.

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