I got no green money for your red,
white, and blue bomb pops. You say
they’re delectable, and delectable,
I think, means a thousand dime–cicles
plus sugar sparkles. I tasted it
in my head. You said only
really hard, only one dollar,
like dollars is dimes and everybody
can get delectables any time, but
Mom says since Dad got his slip
from Ford we won’t have roast
on Sundays or probably
new backpacks or those shoes
that light up on the back part
when you run. Dad likes
fudge pops and beer. I can run
like lightening, faster than your truck
and your bell. If I grow up
I’ll drive a fast car with an ice cream
freezer in the back seat. Nobody
likes your bell.