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Door to Door

We followed Tommy O'Toole, the iceman,

house to house, begging and grabbing chips,

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ice slivers shaved from crystal blocks

brushed with the flavor of wood,

the flavor of the oak bed of Tommy's truck.

Back, it comes back in a rush,

the flavor of the neighborhood,

the cockadoodle of dawn,

the furry itch of tomato plants,

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the yeasty reek of pond,

and the caravan of peddlers winding through:

George the milkman, Eddy the baker,

greengrocer Peppernill;

Fuller Brush man, scissors sharpener,

pots-pans-and-crockery man.

And Fritzy, who drove a dusty, low-slung,

dark-blue-faded-to-iridescence van,

and sold for a nickel

the quintessential, archetypal

Platonic vanilla ice cream cone.

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