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."