Sticky ziplock bags
dragged out of a cardboard
box-filled freezer
which sits beside
the half stocked shelves:

oreo crumbles, pre-whipped whip,
stale m&ms, and milk.

So. Much. Milk.

Lines of ball fans
growing exponentially; Machines
freezing quicker
than the ice cream;

Cherry juice flying
sprinkles glued to my neck
melted sweets groping
my arms—
inevitably coating
the pay pad—
all amounting to swollen
ankles, tired

and globe sized eyeballs
belonging to
the littlest boy
underneath an
oversized aqua
blue bucket hat
as I place
a souvenir helmet

stacked way above
his lifted eyebrows
with a well earned

into his tiny grasp.