The guy stacked the ice cream too high,
Clumps cover the rim of the cup,
Three kinds of chocolate,
Pleasing to the eye.
Obsessive compulsion for cleanliness,
The outside of the cup must be clear,
Sticky fingers are not wanted here,
The taste should only touch my mouth.
I couldn't name all the kinds,
But the tastes could tell a story,
Of the differences in delicate deliciousness,
Three kinds of chocolate ice cream contrast.
A tiny spoon, sparse pickings for full enjoyment,
Time takes its namesake for once, a drift into the sublime,
Cool, smooth softness on the tip of my tongue,
Slowly melting as I taste flavours of which I long.
Sitting on Rundle st. a touch of class,
Fancy lights and restaurants make the street,
No eye contact from the passers by,
Busy rushing home, heavy from a day set in the past.
Stories of their unknown lives,
An emergence from my mind,
"What's their hurry, where do they come from, where do they go?"
Curiosity spawning creativity, making little lies.
"He's rushing home to his wife,
Their night spent making up,
For the time they didn't have,
With his busy daily life."
"She's late to a friend's gathering,
Quickly strutting and looking awry,
The stress from the day on her face,
Everything in the way is bothering."
And a daydream of you and I,
Sitting across from me, looking eye to eye,
Trying not to laugh at the dismay,
Of busy, stressed people who just can't curve away.
Sharing stories of what we see,
Laughing and talking,
But it's not that way,
I'm sitting here alone, with three kinds of chocolate ice cream and a daydream.