Popsicle

There is something about
the young girl attached
to a popsicle in the park
that tells me:
to remember.
To pretend.
To think of strawberries,
September’s desperate heat,
the legato trumpet
memorializing stolen glances,
a limonata in one hand while I brush
the hair on the back of his neck
with the other, a dress that shades
half of the sidewalk,
yellowing leaves that rattle
like the mechanical cat
that waves goodbye.
How it makes us
obsessed.
We trust fall into
sugar and humidity
until we are
bruised on our hip-bones.

And then we jump again.