Ode to a Dropped Push-Up

Thou still unravish’d pop of icyness,
Thou abandoned bringer of Orange and Cream,
Young child, who canst yet express
The sweet joy with which you teem:
What unfulfilled treat haunts about thy shape,
Of porches or playgrounds, or of both,
In Childhood or the Nights of Summer?
What slippery gloves are these? What clumsy cloth?
What melted puddle? What struggle to escape?
What lips now smack? What a sad bummer.