John Biscello

At the edge of a remote island,

(sirens in the distance)

modeling jigsaw scars, cracked veins,

and an oily sheen,

a fast fade dream, a scorched mirage,

occurs every evening like clockwork.

Walter, jangling his bell, shouting:

Good Humor Man, Good Humor Man,

pauses on the corner for Lacy,

who comes running down the street,

feet on fire, shrieking: Strawberry Shortcake,

Strawberry Shortcake;

this old man and

this young girl

resounding the gospel

of summer’s paradise

found.