each flamethrowing summer

we’d stay in a pool of air-

conditioned cool until he called

Paletas!

his voice the graffiti

braiding fences

around our neighborhood

Tengo paletas!

sugar melody rising

above noises from

the nearby freeway

Paletas de Piña!

our ice-cream-man

wheeling what we wanted

across sticky pavement tops

Paletas de Limon!

handcart plastered with pictures

of Spider-Man popsicles

with blue gumballs for eyes

Paletas de Cacahuate!

chased around street corners

by little ones, tots

with missing teeth

Paletas de Fresa!

handing out fruit pops

in exchange for kiddy smiles

and crinkled dollar bills

Paletas de Tamarindo!

bundling money in his back-

pocket with rubber bands

because no one carried his interest

Paletas de Arroz!

stopping only to wipe sweat

off his sun-glazed brow

before pushing on

Paletas de Mango!

a cowboy in leather boots

circling suburban blocks

until he gathered enough savings

Paletas!

who showed us photos

of his family in Jalisco, three

boys and a wife he left behind

Tengo paletas!

his song still in my head