I hang up the phone
after hours of listening to Mom—
yes,
you are right.
At nine p.m.,
the party must go on.
I went to a nearby store
in PJs
and sparkling snow boots,
tasting a rainbow slushy,
grabbing a multipack
of cream soda.
Tap—
no worries,
I got paid today.
The sound
of opening a creamsicle
at midnight—
tastes like…
what d’you call it?
f-r-e-e-d-o-m-
my dear.
It has just the right sweetness,
not too bitter
like Uncle Roger’s dark chocolate,
not too sweet
like candy
rotting your teeth in one bite
Though I will have
a tummy ache tomorrow—
it’s cold,
it’s snowing,
it’s spring somewhere.
I am jiving
with a runny nose—
sorry, Mom,
no need
to look pretty
at forty