Mam made a cone
from newspaper and put sugar in it.
Then she’d give each of us a stick
of rhubarb, to dip.
I loved the green-apple tartness
of the rhubarb against the sweet
sugar granules. Tongues curling
and saliva swirling, like a tap
turned on. Lips pursed
and tongues licking, again and again
‘til it was gone. Mouth and hands
stuck up to glory. Faces beaming
with the aftermath of it,
as we pick the strings
from pink stained teeth. Good
as a bag of sweets any day.