It was back in the late nineties
but husband and wife wore
gold bracelets, gold, dangling
necklaces and many gold rings
like it was the early seventies
and they were a white Sly and
the Family Stone. They were
widowed and married and they
were really gay in the old sense
of the word, nary a care, nary
a mention of dead spouses, nary
a hint of the sadness that chills
to the marrow of the bones. No,
just giggling and jiggling gold
chains. He, widowed, too, felt
he was standing in an alternate
reality, a Cone Head world on
Saturday Night Live. Where were
the eternal wounds? The scars
on the hands, feet and side?
He couldn’t reach out and
embrace the couple as fellow
members of the club to which
no one wishes to belong and
he didn’t want the Midas
touch of fools’ gold.