Gold Dust Dog

Let the dog show you
the wisdom of her
sentient ways, you said,
as I muttered curses
and swept the broom
across the garage floor,
glittering gold in the summer
sunlight, my very own
Aladdin’s Cave.

Golden soot
was now everywhere,
after the damn dog
dragged around
those jugs full of ore,
coating my tools
with a fine layer
of pixie dust.

Maybe the dog was jealous
of the road trip I took
with my son to Cripple Creek,
following a yellowed map
like it was a treasure hunt
to the gold mine that
was ours now, all ours:
a mere hole in the ground
with a homemade ladder
to gather the ore.

We put our precious
haul into the garage and
I reckon precious means
one thing to me, and
another thing to a dog.
Turns out the dog
knew exactly what to do
with my plunder.

True treasure
can’t be contained
in a jug, or a hole
in the ground.
Or a garage,
for that matter.
The dog cast that
shimmering stuff
like a brimfire preacher
gesticulating wildly
against the root
of all evil.

Cast not thy pearls
to swine, nor thy gold
to dogs! They’ll be happy
to teach you every time.
Gold to a fool,
dust to a dog.

Claire Juno, © 2021