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trophy maker's lover

some nights when we cross pathes 
in the wild dark of our home
i see him as the golden man,
the statue atop a parade of pillars
& glitter. what does it mean
to be triumphant? he kneels
in the shadow of his idols.
moves thumbs smoothly across 
stickers. presses down glue
for plastic shards of joy. 
his creations are usually sold 
in bulk. colonies of golden men
& women. every so often
he makes a trophy that he loves so much
he cannot part with. then, it stands
in the corner of our room
keeping vigil over the talk
of old lovers. we met years ago
when the moon was still canteloupe.
now, i worry i am feasting 
on plates of ice cubes. 
there are always victors. more
& more. children & men & girls 
& people with hungry faces.
all the houses where my lover stands,
a golden man atop a temple.
always, he is telling them,
"look how worthy you were."
is it selfish to want him
all to myself? his study thumbs.
we drink each other dry.
turn out the light. his knees.
my shoudlers. the night's archetecture.
i want to whisper to him,
"tell me i am someone. not with
plastic gold but with your mouth." 

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