Nugget

“For a wannabe writer,
That’s a pretty poor plot.”
I clutch at humour to drown
tripping on tongue-tied impotence.
“What do you think will happen?”
Impossible question.
I dread that you may become bored,
and I, a flash in the pan,
a glint that deceives a drudge miner’s ritual.
“Just spit it out.”
I don’t say what I think:
You are not Fool’s Gold.
You are the thought marauder,
the cat burglar of my sleep.
You are my nugget,
brighter than today,
and I will not look away
from the scorching brilliance
of your charm.

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