I don’t want to sound paranoid
but
the man in the ice cream truck
has been following me my entire life.
He waits for months at a stretch,
keeping his truck in cold storage
until I least expect it,
or until I most expect it,
or when I expect it middling.
At last, I hear his introduction:
a tinny fanfare
of his own making,
as if, in a ballroom of kings,
a peddler announced himself
with “pop goes the weasel” on the kazoo,
and was immediately recognized
as a master of distraction.

I, myself, have never been one
for great shows of resistance
against the ecstasy of the orange Push Up.
The ice cream truck drives slowly,
a perambulating muezzin,
stopping and starting for other believers,
but never in doubt
that I will be answering the call.

In the time it takes to melt an ice cube,
the man in the ice cream truck is gone.
Exhaust remains, and sweetness.
Big sis summer’s triumph over spring’s meekness.

But the man in the ice cream truck
is not really gone;
he’s only creating enough silence
to break into again.

The man in the ice cream truck
has disguised himself so well
I have no idea who he is.
His mustaches may all be real for all I know.
The number of his age is unlisted; it may not even exist.
“He” has been a woman many times.
Even the truck changes shape.
And I have moved, in my life. It is no matter.
The man in the ice cream truck
stalks better than the sun,
turning up at my college campus
as if its just another day.
I’ve seen him a few times in Paris.
And though he was an old man of twenty
when I was a child, today
he is barely more than a child himself.

Why this shapeshifter, and why me?
Who would spend their entire life
following me around and bringing me happiness?
How can I explain it?
I am no dissector of mysteries.
I will give thanks and the going rate,
and will continue to expect his coming,
pursued, as I have been, by relentless joy.