Wednesday, March 24, 2021


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.