Tales

poetry

There was a story told
about a man who’s hands
turned lead to gold
and what an awful burden it could be

Because, really, you could
never touch anything again.
The guitar does not sound
so sweet so gilded, nor
do trumpets,
nor do saxophones.

How does one eat? Or
sleep on such stiff pillows?
The paper in a photo-album
erased, worth a thousand
dollars to a thousand words.

Someone told me the story
but I can’t remember what it
means. I think, though, that
I’ll keep wishing for heat-vision.
After all, what harm could
that do?

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s