Oh, were the days when little eyes sparkled
on a sidewalk staring in on bins of sinful delight
through the plate glass window of the confectioner.

Therein the store lay the tooth decay of tomorrow.
Tempting, insatiable stares from tykes on bikes, whose
spoked wheels bore Mickey and Duke baseball cards.

Pennies turned green with envy as palms grew wet
anticipating the "closed" sign would flip to "open."
Then, bi and tricycles would be dumped topsy-turvy
as its door cracked open and the store became packed
with imps and cherubs rushing to stake their claim
of Nickle Nips, Sugar Babies, and Necco wafers.
The action, no less crazy as a California gold rush
where miners bumped, shoulder to shoulder greedily,
delighting in sought treasures, they knew they'd find.

Pockets filled with copper, emptied, to be refilled,
in trade with wares from the candied-filled crates,
seriously abused under the paws of urchin's hands.

Afterward, astride their Tigers, Champs and Huffys,
they tore off to gratify the hunger held deep inside
pockets, drowning in sugar, needing to be experienced.

In short, what seemed so much became short-lived
leaving satisfaction as empty as their piggy banks,
and dreams cracked like a Bonomo frozen taffy.

So off they rode to cut lawns and deliver newspapers
to replenish the deposits spent with the candy man,
on the corner of Broad and Main, downtown
anywhere in the U.S. of A. in the nineteen fifties.