the little falls stewart's, june 1989 in poetry

we made our own make-my-own sundaes
on perhaps ten thousand occasions over
the breadth of my Adirondack childhood

great heaping glops of caramel sauce
even though we said “carmel sauce”
because we didn’t wear monocles

whipped cream and chocolate spray
all the berry glazes, forever ignored
we weren’t making salads, you know
we were making our very own summers
least as much as we were making sundaes

inside Mets mini-caps preferably
but nearly any, in a sweet pinch
though the Orioles or the Cubs
might go in the trash or onto
the b.b. gun range in the fall

the child’s lesson in humility
rooting for the doomed team
Met caps cherished in stacks
cleaned of delicious residue
so they wouldn’t draw ants

if there were only Yankees
no make-your-owns, then
that just was not done, sir
a mint chocolate chip cone
shod in chocolate sprinkles
we didn’t call ‘em “jimmies”
those were for Red Sox fans
wherever they were hiding

we made our own dreams
we made our own summers
we made our own sundaes
sunshine and marshmallow
oozed out in equal measures

it was June in the foothills
it was pretty sweet, indeed