The Problem with Giant Gobstoppers

Our parents direct us towards the
5-minutes-in your-mouth-and-their-gone
variety but we move slack jawed
past ping pong, golf and tennis ball sizes
to the granddaddy of them all.

We jump, dance, stomp, point and pout
until it is bagged and thrust into greedy hands.
Howling children with unwanted coke bottles
and sour soothers are dragged past us
their fingernails digging into the floor,
hands wrapping around doorframes,
the gobstopper prize still in sight.

At home, we tuck ours into bed with us,
half wrapped in plastic and lick until
sleep takes us and mornings come with
sticky faces, our cheeks dyed to match
the layer we got to, our tongues like
sandpaper, our stomachs sick with sweet.