When I'M Three Poem by Janet Budd

My first taste of death is when I'm three.
Each day Mum's at work, Mrs K, gets me,
Pushes me home in my grey pushchair,
Stops at Mr Wright's shop where
She lifts me onto the counter edge.
Hessian potato sacks crowd my swinging legs.
Biscuits in glass boxes wait to be weighed.
Mr Wright magically makes a spinning blade
shear bacon into stacks of streaky leaves.
Grownups come in, they fuss over me.
When the shopping is over, the natter is done
My prize for patience is a sherbet fountain;
A yellow tube of tartness,
a sweet liquorice straw.
One day Mrs K
Collects me from Mum,
Pushes me home
In my grey pushchair,
Stops at the shop where
She lifts me on the ledge.
Sacks crowd my legs,
Biscuits wait to be weighed,
Mrs Wright peels bacon from its blade.
Innuendo fall like leaves,
Grownups cup secrets from my ears.
Before it's begun
the shopping is done.
I suck yellow tartness through a liquorice straw.
It's now years later. I'm ten or more.
Mum mentions Mr Wright
Jumping in the canal one night.
A cascade of truths fall at my feet.
Swiftly I jigsaw the illogical heap.
I sense the morning Mr Wright isn't there
I taste death, tart and daring, like sherbet with air.