The Candyman

He gave you a candy

And put it in your pocket

With his wrinkled fingers

Inside your jeans they lingered

He gave you a shiny dollar

And pressed it in your hand

His paper thin palms

Left the warm print of a man

Old man you lured me in

Old man whom shall I trust?

No, I don't want your money

To silence your disrupt

Old man you lured me in

Old man whom shall I trust?

Deceptive lines of wisdom

Covered up your lust

Old man you lured me in

Old man whom shall I trust?

Dressed just like a grandpa

Smile lines as sharp as rust

Old man you lured me in

Old man whom shall I trust?

Your weathered hands

Warm they are

As they caress my bust

Buried in the woods lived a delicate old man named Bob. His house, a tiny dome atop a bump of a hill, had just enough space to store the myriads of games he’d collected over the years and multitude of candies to satisfy any child’s sweet-tooth.

Along the south wall, was a bed smaller than a twin, tucked under the curve of his wall. As with most of his furniture, it was multi-purposeful; in this case serving as a couch when he entertained. His kitchen was comprised of the absolute necessities; a narrow island with a hot plate and toaster oven, a petite bookshelf that doubled as a cabinet, a makeshift sink with blue pipes that broke through the plastic wall and a mini-fridge plastered in magnets of cartoon characters.

Stacks of children’s books, comic books and magazines hid the walls, and what was left was covered in children’s drawings.

Bob loved to entertain, to make kids smile and laugh. A slip and slide, a giant tipi, enough water guns for an entire school class, a trampoline, and treasure chests kept the boys and girls out of their parents hair.

Bob made his land a playground.

A ten minute hike through the trees while we made up songs and sang in rounds. Feet crunching the leaves and sticks beneath, we knew the treasure was near when in our periphery, were the dangling laces of children’s shoes.

Soon, the path would begin to sparkle with dollar coins, sprinkled like feed all the way to Bob’s front door.