Licks

In the middle of Frogmore Street

a little boy about four years old

stands crying.

Forlornly holding an empty wafer cornet

 in his tightly clenched hand.

Clumps of tears descending his cheeks;

he wails and he stares deflatedly 

at the two lumps

of defrosting vanilla soft scoop

as they relax

all over the adjacent paving slabs

In spite of his mother’s best efforts

to cheer him

the boy stands inconsolable.

His attempts to munch

on the remaining cone 

impeded by his continued, rasping sobs

As passers by,

our hearts bleed for him

Collectively, we relive our own disappointments.

We hurt for him,

 witnesses of life lashing out with its first licks knowing that this will be just one

of a series of occasions when life

in all its cruelty

 will attempt to knock him down.