Thursday, January 29, 2015

Icecream Stand

a poem

The ice cream man, broke the first waffle cone, so he had to get another one. He told me to call him Paul, but he looked like a saint, so I called him St. Paul. When he looked down at me, I could tell he thought I was an angel, but he didn’t know I had a knife in my pocket, that made me a bandit. I didn’t look like one because dad said I couldn’t ride my horse around town. I smiled at him when he handed me two ice creams, one for me, one for Cali. I was surprised there were still ice cream stands, seeing it was autumn.