I may no longer recognize
the songs at my neighborhood pool, but the quintessential clank
of spoon and bowl has never changed. 
After all these years, I’m still just a little girl wiggling atop a wobbly
chair at Gaga’s house, waiting to devour an overflowing
bowl of Moosetracks chocolate ice cream, always a scoop over the serving size.  I scrounge
in soupy remains for each sumptuous morsel, scraping
spoon against glass.  Though the bowl is never big enough, I savor
every melted drop as my kitchen rings with the nostalgic clatter of sweet summer eves.