Gold Poem

by Allan Lake

Nuggets, metaphor, promise, coins.
Thinka Inca. Kill thy neighbour,
make a killing. Little Golden Books,
first place, moments, an egg with carats.
Delete L and behold god, perhaps as calf:
queue Old Testament laugh. Yolk.
Lose G you’re old, go-go before soul
is sold for a fool’s promissory note.
With this ring, I thee, bye-bye thee, honey,
but in Greenland it’s cold, even in bedroom
on your fiftieth wedding anniversary
due to wind chill factor. Knockabout noun
in gold digger town, surname, syrop,
Sir Moneybags of a gold rush.
Safe haven, weighty solid asset carried
by jackasses down an unholy mountain
to turn into liquid asset at nearest pit stop.
Colour beloved of ancients and architects;
lots dig it but only the odd lucky witch gets
rich or a watch made of the elemental stuff.
Bloated bodies in the river worth weight
in concrete shoes. Comedy gold.
Bars, guitars, afternoon, pond.
Does everything nice have Au price?
Does Mafia possess an ill-gotten shipload?
Vatican’s loaded, gilded caged. Lest we forget
true cost of extraction, cost of security
and [storage]. Hedge against shortage.
A fool, I lost it that day I tossed it.

Allan Lake is a goldless Canadian poet living in Australia until he dies.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy

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