Ginger Ice Cream(with a flake)

Oh it's you

You're late

Your Late

Never mine

Yaw late

Pitch early

We shouldn't be out

Past September

Last cut of the garden

It'll grow slowly till spring

Six weeks of the summer

And all he can make

From Ginger ice cream

And a box of flakes

Till the calendar turns to October

And the queues fade to pairs

In any vaque order

Throw away the left cones

And secure the hitchlock

Last cut of the bristle

And last look at the cap

In the summer he reclines

But in the winter recedes

To vansish in moisture

Late into the year

Dark calls and he signs in

Not lucid but attendant

To break like a tide

Over trances of black

(5 months on)

Till a temperate clue

Shows a lateral bud

As he grasps for his cap

Then scratches his chin

Light flung into past

To revive his plan of survival

Who causes his rage?

To subside inculcate

As he reaches for ice cream, ginger

And boxes of flke