poem || Jeff Bagato

The Golden Touch

                                              moonrich

                                  & loaded with plastic

                                        & scraps

                             of wood,        

                                                                  just used

                                                 clothes & old

                                                                    rags,

                                  all the note paper,

                                                       button downs & tees

                                     piled in my treasure house,

                                               weighing down,

                                                                      weighed down

                                            yo ho ho with spoils

                     old pennies old buttons old

                            rags, pencil stubs

                                                 & the bust of a man

                                   gone down in his suit

                                             & tie,

                                                         the last stylish haircut

                                                                  & neat wire framed bifocals

                                      scuffed up in the black snow,

                                                in the grit & grease

                      & all that rubber dust

                                          ground off SUV tires with the dog

                                shit & horse shit

                                                      & bullshit—

                                           what kind

                         of man emerges from that husk,

                                                               pupating now in

                 post-capitalist cocoon,

                                perhaps putting aside

                                               caterpillar entitlement

                         to all the green leaves

                                    on the tree?

                             his silence,

                                            such silence

                                   now,

                                                        profound, really,

                                       considering:

                                                  so shortly ago,

                            his megaphone on stun,

                 preaching right & free

                                             for all money,

                                                               digital & yes

                                        real,

                                                               & cheering ever higher

                                                    wax-winged flights

                           between risk & profit & pocket

                                                                 & Santa’s pouch &

                                                                        the leprechaun hordes

                                                  of golden steaming piles &

                                    the pure filament of evil greed

                                                       spun so true by Rumpelstiltskin’s

                                                               trolly paws

                                             while gripping the girl’s

                                                                   thigh with a leer

                                                        it’s all

                              about the money,

                                         the clinging, hairy

                        stench of dirty

                                                                     dandruff

                                                 whisking from hand

                                                             to hand

                                            at the

                                                                      bank

                                                             for me these

                                            rags are gold,

                                                        this paper

                                                                 golden, &

                                                     this pen the

                                         scepter of god