(for Lisa and Stuart Morgan)

Here’s to the trusty scoops
at the ready to ball up a perfect
sphere of your favorite flavor,
bound for dish or bowl or cone.

Here’s to the porcelain-topped syrup
dispensers with their clear lettering
boldly announcing vanilla, strawberry,
orange and more,

the graceful tulip fountain dishes
begging for two scoops topped with
hot fudge, whipped cream, nuts
and a cherry,

the neat rows of ice cream float glasses,
water glasses, soda glasses, every
manner of glassware hovering over
the hot fudge warmer, the mint green

Hamilton milkshake mixer, near a
stack of upended pointed paper cones
prepared to cradle a crunchy, edible one
supporting a single or double scoop.

And behind it all, a teenaged soda jerk
swathed like a pharmacist in white
from shirt to apron, paper-hatted,
ready to take your order,

as you and a girlfriend sit swiveling
on chrome-rimmed stools, elbows
chilled by the marble counter,
grinning, giggling, gossiping,

reaching for a fresh straw fanned
from the fluted dispenser, taking a
deep pull of Coke, then returning
to your endless conversation,

which—though this scene will fade
into history—if you are lucky,
will continue well into your long
lifetimes.