The Confectionery by Tom Horonzy |
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.
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Tom Horonzy
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