The icehouse stands
a ruined shell
reminding me of lost yesterdays.
As we rode our bicycles
on those hot summer afternoons
its cool cavern was our destination.
We were drawn by the smell
the feel, the magic of tepid water
turned to pristine ice.
It was a mystery we couldnąt comprehend
like Sputnik or infinity
or the intricacies of long division.
We were young and strong
as we pumped and coasted
up and down the hills of the neighborhood.
The icehouse was our childhood boundary
that huge old structure
with its sagging doors and cracked sidewalk.
Beyond lay the railroad tracks and junkyards
and we could hear the beat and throb
of the blues in the forbidden juke joints.
We were young and carefree then
knowing nothing of wasted lives
or unfulfilled dreams.
We knew only the taste of ice-cold water
the feel of the wind in our faces
as we rode our bicycles back home.
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Editor's note: Barbara Scott was born in Mississippi. From the words of her poem, it's easy to see that one regret from her lost yesterdays is not crossing the tracks beside the ice house and entering one of those forbidden juke joints.
She now lives in south Alabama where she plays bass guitar with a blues band named Third Degree. They're one of the best blues bands in south Alabama. For booking info or to compliment Barbara on her cool poem, email her at bluenote@gulftel.com
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