Door to Door

We followed Tommy O'Toole, the iceman,

house to house, begging and grabbing chips,

ice slivers shaved from crystal blocks

brushed with the flavor of wood,

the flavor of the oak bed of Tommy's truck.

Back, it comes back in a rush,

the flavor of the neighborhood,

the cockadoodle of dawn,

the furry itch of tomato plants,

the yeasty reek of pond,

and the caravan of peddlers winding through:

George the milkman, Eddy the baker,

greengrocer Peppernill;

Fuller Brush man, scissors sharpener,

pots-pans-and-crockery man.

And Fritzy, who drove a dusty, low-slung,

dark-blue-faded-to-iridescence van,

and sold for a nickel

the quintessential, archetypal

Platonic vanilla ice cream cone.

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