Friday, May 24, 2013

Gold digger

I watch the ground hog hobble from hole to hole
Digging furiously at something he cannot find
Frustrated, he moves on, doing exactly the same thing
In each place with exactly the same result,
Leaving only pockmarked landscape
Worse off for having traversed it,
Puck, my best friend’s little brother, growing up,
Used to talk about buried treasures in the mountain
Near the city in which we lived,
Going up there every weekend to dig holes he claimed
Would someday make him rich, leaving nothing
In his wake but holes for innocent hikes to stumble in,
He, years afterwards, found his calling as an armed robber
Leaving a lot more holes in a lot more innocent people
But never found the gold he was looking for
Because it was never there

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