Four O’Clock

The truck comes at four.
It always comes at four.
Someone says that means the town is healthy.
 
Kids gather in quiet rows,
hands behind their backs.
They say please without being told.
 
Each cone is handed over
with the same phrase:
“Just how you like it.”
 
A mother says,
“You’re not in trouble,”
then repeats it to herself.
 
The cones soften.
The children smile.
It’s always like this:
too sweet to swallow,
too sacred to drop.
 
The mother repeats herself.
And for a moment,
the sunlight splits—
just enough for you to see
the cracks in the paint
on every perfect surface,
where the wasps always know to come.