Chapstick

I find it at the bottom of Mummy’s purse.
I run my fingers over the smooth cylinder.
(Anticipation)
Then I slide it through the zipper-opening into daylight.
I turn it around in my chubby hands to find the right end.
(Concentration)
I frown slightly and my muscles tense as I pull and pull,
Until with a satisfying “pop!” the lid comes off.
(Triumph)
I carefully place the lid on the seat beside me.
My focus is now on the artificially red and glossy interior.
(Approval)
I can smell its strawberry candy fragrance,
And I marvel at the convex curve over the tip.
(Appreciation)
Taking action, I rub it across my lips in dual horizontal slashes,
Then follow-through with a tell-tale smear along one cheek.
(Delight)
I twist the tube’s base,
Watching the slow emergence of the red core out of its shell.
(Amusement)
Retrieving the lid, I mash it down,
the surplus now coating the outside.
(Admiration)
As I return it to the purse pocket and zip it back up into its dark hiding place,
My tongue darts out to taste a residual strawberry globule on my finger.
(Glee)