Such a simple thing, really,
round faces without

eyes, nose or mouth,
but good company.

They soothed you
in church or car,

fat gold coins
from your mother's purse,

their bright cellophane
like a bee's bonnet,

a happy slip
through which the day

looked brighter.
Sometimes you liked

to bite down, hear
them cracking apart,

sticking to your teeth
like chunky fillings,

loose as chips
from crushed yellow glass.

Other times they dissolved
like disks on your tongue,

small suns
in the galaxy of your mouth,

spinning out toward
adulthood, disappearing.

This poem first appeared in Waiting Room (Hill-Stead, 2012).
Used here with the author's permission.