I remember going to the Wild West when I was nine,

Seeing the saloon and cowboy hats

And tacky cream burlaps,

The water pool with dirt and stone and

Chunks of fake gold.

I sifted through the silt,

Seeing a dozen painted glows amongst the grime.

It made me proud.

I couldn’t imagine miners

Panning in the California heat,

Rushing toward a dream fulfilled by flakes.

The constant hope of eating debts

And the sharp bitterness that came with

Scoops of gravel.

A little more regret with each little nothing.

A pick

A pan

A shovel

Tainted with knowledge

That you were striking rock

And they were striking gold.

Look at the slopes.

Look at the gems 

You aren’t good enough to find.

I wish I could be nine again

So I could strike gold a dozen times over,

So each plunge was just as fruitful

And each piece was just as prideful

As everyone else’s.

But I’m just the 49er

Watching the rocks turn with profit 

While I drown in hard-earned gravel,

And stare at the distant ridge.