The Emporer of Ice-Cream (Now We Are Six)

He was this tiny little boy, this boy I know. And then, one day (today), he was six. I am reminded today of Wallace Stevens' poem "The Emperor of Ice-Cream," perhaps because the six-year-old knows it and loves it, and because it begins with such celebration and inclusion in that first stanza:

Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

Now we are six. The only emperor is the emperor of ice cream.