Gold

After the murder, I called a meeting

to see if we were happy. I declared

I was not — I said I liked the man

we shot. You all disagreed with this.

I asked if you knew him, his wife,

none of you did. “Kill me, then,”

I said. You all stared at me. “Why,

Bernard? Of course we won’t.”

“Why not?” I said. “He was a good

man, a better man than me. And

look at what I’ve brought you — 

rubbish, dodgy tales, dross.”

“Easy to dismiss that,” you said.

“We appreciated it all. And you

wandered the wild paths to bring

it back to us — your songs, your

legends, magic stories, your gold.”

I thanked you, but shook my head.

The good man was dead. I didn’t care

what I’d brought you. I needed to go.

I packed up my sagas, my song lyrics,

my alchemy potions, my gold, and

I disappeared.