Confection

With his trunk full of Polly-waffles,
Mallo-pops and Ho-hos,
he brought exotic gelatines
to the offies of Bristol and West.
But it was slow progress
hustling for rack-space
between throat sweets and mints
and so, one afternoon, with his confidence
bolstered by half a bag of marbled
fudge he decided it was time
to take a risk. He set his reputation
on the Goober, fresh from the states,
a classic three-bite fondant
with a bubbly, nougatdome.

“You’d best make space
between Galaxy and Mars,”
he said. “It’s the only sweet
you’ll find in my glove-box.”
Across sixteen counties
he led the push.
“Its aerated centre will make
grown-men blush.”
Corner shop owners
took his fervour for foresight.

They ordered more than
they could store, they stacked
them in the aisles. Pyramids
of foil loomed up
at point-of-sale displays.
But either the people
weren’t ready for it, or it
wasn’t ready for people
and, one afternoon, faith
in the product sank.

In a National Trust car park
above a caramel sea,
his back seat stacked
with surplus boxes,
he took stock of his situation.
Letting the handbrake up
he gently rolled off the viewing point.
As his Volvo slowly filled,
there was a pleasure
akin to understanding:
the rocks, the teeth,
the tide, the tongue.