The Postcard

I am the gold-leafed cupolas
atop bright yellow and red buildings
The face in the doorway
next to the giant teardrop
The light catcher and the light
landing on smooth siding
I soak up sun and rust with rain
I smell like the city,
like iron, and reach skyward
though not exactly dancing

This gold leaf
my father told me was real gold
so many years ago
has traveled with me from city to city
First west, then east, then south and north
The postcard is tattered but this frame
has so safely contained its colors
For this I am thankful

If I am ever to become lost
please return me to the poet
who protected me
who believed I was real gold
who watched from the corner, face
large as doorways
small as your thumbnail
next to so many tears, so many windows

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