Poem

Midas Touch

by Christine Emmert
QuailBellMagazine.com

I asked him how gold did he want it?
I thought he loved me because my hair was gold,
but it wasn't enough.  He looked at other blondes.  

The sun wasn't gold enough
or the flowers that flourished by the river.  

When he touched me
I froze under his hand.
And then he cried tears that glinted
with the gold of my surprised expression.  

He ended up with ass ears
and very afraid to reach out.  

I survived by the luck of the gods (and goddesses)
to go on to golden days
that were no worse the wear for having other
colors
included.  

The fortune, he sighed,
is in the contrast.