‘Dippin’ Dots at Hershey Park’

Andrea Abbott has written for many years, mostly poetry and essays. She has had a variety of careers, including twenty years as a correctional librarian in a men's prison. She has lived most of her life in rural areas of upstate New York.

Dippin’ Dots at Hershey Park

Yesterday I promised my great-niece,
old enough to remember promises,
Dippin’ Dots, which she claims
she loves more than anything.
I have never known anyone
Who loves Dippin’ Dots, so
I promised her
I would buy her some tomorrow.
Now it is tomorrow, in that relentless way
things happen, and we find the stand
among sycamore trees
somehow surviving under the roller coaster.
I think of Amos,
dresser of sycamore trees, reluctant prophet,
knowing the prophet’s fate,
wanting an out.
“It’s OK,” I whisper back along the centuries.
“No one listens.”
I sing, softly, amid the theme part crowds,
I ain’t no prophet
No prophet’s child
But I have seen the future
And it’s mean and wild.
I think of Dippin’ Dots,
the astronauts who
supposedly ate them out in space,
when future meant
bright promise.
We break our promises
so easily, especially to children.
They won’t remember, we say,
so we use the plastic bags,
buy the gas,
keep the status quo.
It’s just hard enough
getting through a day.
We’ll do it tomorrow, we say.
They’ll forget, we say.
Someday, someday, someday.
Beads dropping off a string.
It’s so easy
to break promises,
especially to children.
They won’t remember.
So easy that I want to keep
one promise.
I buy her Dippin’ Dots,
Chocolate and vanilla beads,
like a broken plastic necklace.
like a broken plastic tomorrow.

Andrea Abbott has written for many years, mostly poetry and essays. She has had a variety of careers, including twenty years as a correctional librarian in a men's prison. She has lived most of her life in rural areas of upstate New York.