With only moments left to say
what flavor I want,
a ball passes by me,
whizzing past my head,
bounces on the sidewalk,
rolls into the shade.

The eyes of ice cream have me,
calling out my name.
My forehead starts to break
into sweat and beads and shake.
That ball's not mine.
I'm out here buying nut bars,
standing in the street.

The ball starts ringing very far away
but moving closer to my ear
with every decision I fail to make.