the cookies n’ cream
tastes like real cookies and
the strawberry cheesecake
tastes like real cheesecake and
sweaty children push through
the heavy glass doors with the force
of over thirty magnetic flavours
pulling at iron tongues.
Fifteen minutes before closing,
there are two fire trucks parked
at the corner, and inside the parlour
the fire men line the counter
like a row of shiny medals.
The server says It’s on the house
so the men feed their change to the tip jar
and call hearty thank-yous on their way out.
The fire men stand on the corner, holding their
sugar cones with muscled forearms,
and we smile sweetly at them
wishing life were always
as pleasant and simple as
firemen and ice cream.
I believe the official name of the parlour is Maple Leaf Dairy, but it's "St. Clair's" to most people. It's on the Danforth, two streets east of Dawes on the south side, and I highly recommend it.
I was discussing yesterday how girls almost unanimously love firemen, but don’t always agree on their attraction to other members of the public protection service like police officers. Why do you think that might be? I hint at my own theory in the last lines of the poem.