Last call of the ice cream truck

The jingle threads through autumn dusk,

a thin memory that shouldn’t be here.

Rusted wheels silent, but the tune

rides down cracked streets like a ghost.

It’s late for chimes, too cold for cones,

but the music keeps spinning, slow and low.

A song misplaced in the chill, in the quiet,

a summer sound drowning in November’s gray.

I stop, listen, but there’s no truck—

just notes dripping from an old radio,

a last call fading into the night,

never quite gone, never quite whole.