by Alexa Sims
He, with his gold pig and leather shoes, and
I, in my gold chain and dirt-boy chucks,
stroll arm-in-arm down a golden trail.
As shoulders shift, he sips my home-brewed blues
—The Anguished Artist in his little room, hiding,
and writing notes to the city sky,
moving only for the last stars in her eyes—
Such romance breeds the bones of towns like ours,
where housewives spill drinks in secret bars
and fathers learn late how to play guitar, singing,
“Be wary of time on golden trail
spent mooning for rooms in city skies.
Gold roots will trellis from foot to face
to siphon your blues and leave you dry.”