Driving back from the lake
that hot July day,
Brittany and her friend Trevor
in the backseat eating hard ice cream
cones, they are five years old.
The ice cream isn't so hard as it melts
all over their hands and faces and laps.
I'm trying to stop cold chocolate lava flows
and watch the road as semis skirting
the stateline weigh station blow down Trent.

Now my kids eat ice cream cones perfectly,
even on very hot summer afternoons.
I never have to yell at them to eat fast,
or hand back napkins at 65 mph,
or pull over at a gas station in frustration
and get water to clean them up.
If I still had that Nissan Pathfinder
I'd go out right now and see if I could find
an old chocolate stain or two.

Bob Salsbury
The Unbearable Bobness of Being

DFO: Dunno if the muse has taken control of Bearable Bob because it's National Poetry Month, but he's having a monster week with his rhymes on his blog. For those of you who don't like poetry, Slate online provides anti-poetry poems here.

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