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A Miser's Gold

Squatting, slugged in the soft arms of your chair,
you pull selected memories, slights, back
inside yourself for comfort’s sake.

Nursed blades, they cause no pain until you speak.
Then you burnish them, buffing with bile’s
cloying froth spilled from  your lip’s angry twist.

Most are old, the verdigris of years in their folds,
but with facets polished bright as fireside brass,
taken out daily, like cutlery, or a miser’s gold.


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