Good as Gold

Good as Gold: Royal seals on secretive missives, the edible confetti that resist bite on the wedding favors, the retro leggings on the twiggy legs of high-schoolers nostalgic for something they never knew in the first place. This color doesn’t really exist in nature or in my quotidian.

Metallic polishes are hard to pull off, they streak, get goopy and clump easier than other colors somehow.

This new moon is supposed to be epic.

This entry shall bear a haiku quality to it.

No flow, just threads laid beside one another.

My golden child turned eight and we held the quietest, nerdiest strategy games party known to the hipsterhood.

He has taken a liking to Duck Rillettes and oysters.

My god, what have I done. A gastro-snob before puberty.

The glint in his eye as we watch Monty Python skits.

The groan in my throat as I receive undue attention.

The gargoyle that takes over his face when I cover his gashing wound in iodine.

He’s not mine.

I make a point of not answering all his questions so he knows I am not the oracle, but an occasional solace buddy.

But I indulge him in home baked goods and inappropriate anecdotes.

Precious.