Gold nugget cry from the greenhorn certainty
of an aging prospector
remembering seventy autumns in a city
and how the brightly colored leaves
once upon came sliding down on his youth
persuaded by his feverish traveling notion.
He ignored the doom of others
who panned for gold in a metal season.
Even the deceased laughed among the gravestones.
This city slicker’s hands stood wrist deep in time,
and never mourned,
remembering seventy autumns,
with the bright sun of seventy years parched upon his lips
and his eyes half blind with memories.
But someone came shooting to a claim jump,
a dull death in a Sunday stream.
Jealousy opened a sluice,
watered the black roses.
The shell of a city man lay face
down in trickling water.
In the guild of greed, dark clouds, dark clouds.
So came the gold rush swarm,
locusts of men.
So dumb they used the gun sound,
haunched like pack dogs
grinning over the bones of gold.
They aged and swallowed the sparkling dust,
streams shrunk to a clay pot.
The swarm were knocked into a cocked survival,
worming themselves into poverty’s niches,
city alleys, a crotch street.
Beggars panhandling for a morsel.
Copyright © 04/08/18 lance sheridan®