Late at night
On the uptown A
There is a man eating a single scoop of ice cream
With a wooden spoon from
A little orange cup.
Vanilla bean
A special, secret recipe
A childhood favorite
He is savoring
Every. Single. Bite.
It may be 38°F outside
But it’s never too cold for vanilla bean ice cream
He hasn’t had ice cream in the longest time
Certainly not uninterrupted like this
With just the rattle of the train
The quiet company of his fellow passengers
For now, there are no screaming children
No demands on his time
No worries in the world
Just this scoop of ice cream
The wooden spoon
The little orange cup
And the taste of heaven