The Magic Circle

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

It’s strange, but, still, he wears that golden thing.

He doesn’t know quite why.  It’s like a weight

That can’t come off, this wedding golden ring.

When she was living, he recalled the date

Religiously almost.  He marked the day

Each year without imagination or

Creative thought:  you know, a red display

Of roses, all that sort of thing…before

She died.  Of course the day comes round again,

Again, again, but, still, he wears the band upon

The marriage finger.  Gold does not leave stain

Or bruise.  He feels like he’s a taken pawn.

  And now he wears a finger watch right next

    To gold.  Most people do not guess he’s hexed.