JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

Behind the ice-cream counter

red cheeked as an immigrant from

a Siberian snowscape, his eyes glared

question marks—he’s younger than me

hissed Maya still hoping for that

fading vacation job

 

Untrimmed fingernails pulled at frozen

strawberries, that’s enough banana instructed Maya,

he seemed not to listen, tonged in another lump,

prying paper wrapper off a fro-yo brick

knife eventually discarded for more fingernails

 

Requests for chocolate chips, m&ms and oreos

ignored, perhaps some Russian winter froze

his eardrums, he pushed the lot into a shuddering

mixer-blender, grunting now, both arms straining

at the handle, a reluctant brownish extrusion

snaking out to miss extended cup, snake across counter

 

Just as we were giving up hope he shoved it all

back into the mixer and turned his tongs towards

the oreos, More, said Maya but this fell again somewhere

between a red necked scowl and a paralyzed ear drum

 

When I finish school I want to be a barmaid, thus

Maya, licking her plastic spoon. Those drinkers

probably leave lots of tips