By Jessica Reed
On the city's west side,
Summer scents of blackened charcoal watered my mouth in hunger for hot dogs perfectly grilled, burnt on top.
My stomach danced to Mr. Softy’s childish jukebox,
kids on my block hustled for $1 passports to ice cream dreams.
Nothing stung like the buzz of the ice cream truck
passing us up ‘cause our shouts were unheard, hands waving into fading hopes,
rising again
when the next truck came...