poem of the day 05.02.11

golden

we were golden in that era
but less than gold
and that tranny prostitute
was dressed in gold
with her adam’s apple
asking us if we were looking
for a good time
because what else were
three white boys looking for
but a good time
in downtown pittsburgh
at three in the morning
on a saturday night?
golden as a sunset
golden as the small hairs
on a blonde’s legs
calvin, now married eleven years
with his three kids
and his church groups
steve, still trying to make the club scene
along smallman street
me, with london and paris
and traveling america under my belt
marriage and the new york city blues
with career and gray hairs
books of poems
and cockroaches hiding
in the toilet
not old
not done
satisfied, mostly
but there are those days
where i wish that i was running
down forbes avenue
in the dead hours of the morning
hooker heels being tossed at me
twenty-two years old forever
heading toward the corner
toward a light on the next block
the one that i knew
was going to make me shine
eternal.