Saturday, I hear, with green like flowers in the trees, and shade like a sidewalk sandwich, fifteen cents, world, she says, like I saw a robin this morning like all mornings, I wake up, and Saturday goes like a melody, a dream, in which I look for her, the music from her truck, and, like the boys and girls who hear it and run, I like her. The ice-cream girl begins to come around at night, and I can hear her music in the cold and dusk.
June 1972