Something scrumptious always simmering
in an old enamel pot.
Looks to have cooked a million meals
one hopes will never stop.
But as delectable to me as these savory delights,
Nonna and Papa’s home is a sweet-tooth paradise.
A candy-coated, chocolate-covered, fantasyland,
with countless confectionaries ever at hand.
Coffee candy, toffee bits.
Circus peanuts, caramel nips.
Cookie tins with crescents that melt on my tongue,
leaving powdered-sugar fingerprints wherever I’ve gone.
In nightstands, TV stands, and cabinets, wall-to-wall;
in boxes, and pockets, and purses in the hall.
I scan all the shelves for a glimmer of color
through crystal candy dishes in a glass-front cupboard.
On a table right next to the velvety green couch,
I find a lidded coffer that has gone untouched.
Chasing my greedy reflection over the mirrored table top,
I see no misgivings, as I reach for the box.
Those would come later,
when at the dinner table,
Nonna pressed me to eat,
but I simply wasn’t able.
Which is simply