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Bertha Rogers reads
Golden
in RealAudio format.
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Golden girl, I envied you your garments,
the ease with which you greeted change.
Why did you, fortune’s favorite, withdraw?
How could you leave, smile intact?
The ease with which you greeted change!
Forty years: I’m the graying lady in the beat-up car.
How could you leave, smile intact,
shocking me to the church, her novenas and beads?
Forty years: I’m the graying lady in the beat-up car.
You materialize in my tinted windshield,
shocking me to the church, her novenas and beads.
You’re as pale as the aura the gypsy mentioned.
You materialize in my tinted windshield.
I swerve, you levitate, you’re transient,
you’re as pale as the aura the gypsy mentioned.
These days, passing cars can’t touch you; ordinary dirt.
I swerve, you levitate, you’re transient.
Mourning, your friends ate funeral fruits, we sobbed;
these days, passing cars can’t touch you; ordinary dirt;
you’re diaphanous, a tissued, perfectly-pressed frock.
Mourning, your friends ate funeral fruits; we sobbed.
Now, keeping busy, I rarely think of you—
you’re diaphanous, a tissued, perfectly-pressed frock.
On my way to work I buy coffee at the Quick Stop.
Now, keeping busy, I rarely think of you.
My daughters have daughters; you never did, never will.
On my way to work I buy coffee at the Quick Stop;
the manager greets me with a thousand good wishes.
My daughters have daughters; you never did, never will
carry that sweetness; promise of immortality.
The manager greets me with a thousand good wishes.
I grin broadly, laugh, even,
carry that sweetness; promise of immortality.
But it’s evanescent—it shifts, it slips.
I smile broadly, laugh, even.
Back on the road, I watch your hand
but it’s evanescent—it shifts, it slips.
You wave, drop details of your latest gala.
Back on the road, I watch your hand,
the gown, gold as morning, you swirled in.
You wave, drop details of your latest gala—
the nutmeats, entertainment (Elvis? Buddy Holly?),
the gown, gold as morning, you swirled in—
you, who passengered badly in cars!
The nutmeats, entertainment (Elvis? Buddy Holly?),
no impediment to the clouds you ride, high-altitude wheels
you, who passengered badly in cars
are permanently above bridge abutments,
no impediment to the clouds you ride, high-altitude wheels.
The morning’s cold, my friend; your eyes
are permanently above bridge abutments.
Most of us, alive, cast our lined, tired looks aside.
The morning’s cold, my friend; your eyes.
Yet you’re content, I’d bet on it.
Most of us, alive, cast our lined, tired looks aside;
we go on, breaking, changing, aging.
Yet you’re content, I’d bet on it.
Golden girl, I envied you your garments.
We go on, breaking, changing, aging.
Why did you, fortune’s favorite, withdraw?
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