Wednesday, October 22, 2014


Gold Dust Gertie
I would often ask you for the stories
of how I ended up here
and you would tell me:
I met your grandfather when
he came to work for my parents.
He was a really sharp dresser.
Then you would laugh.

I wondered if you knew what you were really
telling me:
That grandpa had been given used clothes
by your lover, a man you were enamored with
and at first, at the play,
you thought grandpa was him.
(His scent permeated the room;
you could feel him—his essence,
like a star beam covered in gold dust.
But then when you looked,
you saw it was grandpa.)

It must have been really funny,
but what’s really funny is that’s why
I’m here.

© Julianne Carlile

1 comment:

  1. Thanks to Wilda Morris for her helpful input on this poem. See her poetry challenge at


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