“It looked like a small broach”, you said,

Encircling your fingers and looking through.

When as a child you’d coughed up a sweet

That very nearly ended you.

Your mother whacked you on the back.

The item careered through BHS.

A piece of hot-pink confectionary,

Landed on a lady’s dress.

You told the anecdote so well.

I imagined you in mid-near-death.

Panicked amongst the cream silk blouses

Until the whack made way for breath.

With the ordeal over and dress removed,

The shop assistant mimed “it’s ok.”.

It didn’t put you off sweets at all.

You dice with hard-boiled ‘til this day.