Palavras lidas #549

The Ice Man
by Jeanne Lohmann

Winters when the Olentangy River
froze deep enough, we cut the ice
into blocks, hauled them on sleds
to deep freeze storage.

In our town, Shorty Vanetta, the ice man,
muscled his pick and saw to cut
the twenty-, fifty-, and hundred-pound cakes
he hoisted to the thick leather pad on his shoulder.
With his big tongs he settled the ice into sawdust
on the bed of his delivery truck,
stopped at restaurants and family kitchens
with old-fashioned ice boxes where
the drip pans had to be emptied
before they overflowed.

In summer we watched for Shorty’s truck,
ran for the sparkling chips he
gave us in newspaper cones,
lifted the freezing melt
to our hot and eager tongues.