2 June 2004 | Vol. 4, No. 2

Inheriting Stock in Eskimo Pie

by JOSHUA POTEAT

There is more to it than just ice cream,

          the broker said, the palms of his hands

pint-heavy and warm.

          These figures show that

in the next quarter, you should expect

          a grand return. He leans back. He smiles.

He is happy for me. He could not ask

          for much more than this. Twelve suits,

two white lines to park between, and me.

          He loves me. I am not afraid to admit it.

He wants me, what is in my pockets. What is.

          The lines of his figures dwindle

to a single equation, twirl into what is expected,

          a sculpture of fact and promise.

And why not an equation? The numbers

          keep him warm at night, beg him to read stories.