Desire

The smell of an ice cream parlor
--indistinctly sweet, complex,
this minute fudge, caramel, then
bubblegum, maybe cake batter--
is not one of the ice cream choices.
I don't want anything.
We stare at frozen buckets, desiring
and hope we ordered something close
since we'll never have what haunts us.
Which is not to say I do not want.
Like candied nuts from a street vendor.
You could stand nearby, just breathing,
loving the aroma for exactly what it is
for free, I guess--but none of us ever do.
I only want un-specifically.





July 2022