The jingle came at dawn

The jingle came at dawn,

a Tuesday in October,

the sun still thinking about rising.

Chrome caught the weak light.

The truck sat on a street lined with leaves

that had fallen too early,

confused about what season it was,

same as the music,

same as the kids in pajamas

pressed against the window,

wondering if the world had glitched.

Ice cream in the cold.

A song meant for June.

Nothing arriving on time.

I stood in my kitchen.

The coffee was still brewing.

The jingle kept playing,

kept playing,

a sound from a different life,

a sound that doesn't belong here.

It's still in my head this afternoon.

It's still wrong.