Everyone On Howard Ave. Has An Ice Cream Cone

On a walk to the Rite Aid I reached up to touch new ginko leaves, then stopped to admire someone's bloom of cornflower flax. The parking garage exhaled coolness. Some mossy trees tricked me into thinking someone was wearing patchouli, and the bus shelters smelled like vegetable soup and cologne. I got stuck behind a man who was walking while texting or scrolling on his phone, and his pace dwindled to the point where I was grateful when our paths diverged. Rite Aid is going out of business and the shelves are neat and tidy because there's hardly a nail file to buy. I got most of what I needed, and walked home the zigzaggy back way, avoiding rush hour intersections and reveling in my ability to be a pedestrian. I walked up Howard, past the paused ice cream truck, and peeked inside to see a bin of rainbow sprinkles, then the aproned belly of the man who runs the truck as he approached the window. Everyone on Howard Ave. had an ice cream cone. There are evenings I hear the jingle of this truck as it sits on Locust street, tinkling promises of summer nights and fireflies.