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Treasure Seekers

We scoured the woods,
each root, each clump,
each stand of brush,
in passionate search
for the earth’s secrets.

Results were varied.
Larry found ten dollars in quarters
gleaming like frost on a stump.
Joe’s reward for all that sweaty work
was a condom on a stick held high
like a flag of some foreign nation.

We combed with fingers,
eyes, noses.
Glass shards, metal bits, were pirate gold
only because we said so.

Then we came upon the hare,
freshly dead.
We buried it beneath sticks and leaves.

We made a cross
of twigs and grass
a monument to our brief mercy.

Larry said a prayer for the rabbit’s soul.
Joe said animals had no souls.

But I say,
if a rusty key is a doubloon,
then yes they do.

.

—
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, River & South, and The Alembic. His three latest books are Bittersweet, Subject Matters, and Between Two Fires, with work upcoming in Rush, White Wall Review, and Flights.

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