Many have asked
(and how right-
fully so)
what good is that
glistening trove
of gold
whose secret and
pitch black cave
of a room
you alone can
access when-
ever you choose;
but which,
impervious to purses
or pockets or bags,
you're permitted
to stroke
but never remove?
The true poem
is just such a
mystical hoard—
a burden of worth
which can
never be sold,
that dire treasure
which only makes you poorer
to behold.
