Your eyes are fixed on the western horizon--
a gaze set towards the sunset on the golden coast, that
does know not that this midas mirage
is feather-light and diffracted,  scattered
like the morning paper
after your father finishes his coffee, and rises
knees creaking louder
than his chair, crooked
tie and all sloughing off
in the morning light, squinting
because it isn't evening yet.