there would be no jingle jangle,
no slogan-sputtering mascot.
instead, with almost-evening
pouring through the window,
i’d turn on the camera
and sprinkle them like confetti,
let them pile around her toes.
she would rake them with her fingers,
grab one or two in a lucky pinch,
shove her fist into her mouth,
withdraw it, and start chewing
just in case.
mostly they’d be clinging to her palm,
but occasionally one would grab onto a glossy lip
or make it inside, and
it would be silent enough to hear the crunch
and still enough to see
the old woman inside of her, gumming it.
a spongy half-moon would find its way onto her shirt,
and i’d pick it up, bring it to her mouth;
she’d lean forward and take it, and smile with two teeth.
[fade to black for the tagline]
remember the joy.
i know it would work. i’d have the world
eating out of the palm of my hand.