A Miser’s Life
By Barbara Young
The trees in the Art Center courtyard are small.
Elms—I think they are; I’ll call them elms—
with stiff leather oval-round leaves that turned
yellow overnight and fell the next night
onto the white gravel. And the wind heaped them
beside the walk; and I had just arrived
when the damn sun suddenly struck coins, right
before my eyes. I had to set my purse down,
had to bend and scoop a double handful.
If the leaves were nasty underneath with damp,
dead bugs and cigarette butts, it really
didn’t matter. They fell through my fingers,
and I was Scrooge McDuck, living large
in a top hat, my hands dripping gold.
Barbara Young is aging without grace in Middle Tennessee. She thinks she’d like to be a poet if she grows up, but won’t bet on it. Her blogs went South for the winter holidays, may now be in Cuba.