Most Sundays in the summer,
from mid-morning to early evening,
the ice-cream van parked in a prime spot,
near the top of our street
to catch churchgoers and passers-by,
and kids sent out for the after-dinner treat.
We waited our turn listening to the noise
of the engine running, the occasional chimes,
smelling exhaust fumes, watching bluebottles
head-butting the glass, giving the open window a miss,
wondering how the ice-cream man could go all day
in his ice-cream van without taking a piss.