His Place

He is on his riding mower. He looks like me, only he owns a rich man's house, a garden measured in acres - his skin is better. No picket fences; this is upscale America. Long drives and old stone walls, gated. A cultural dream pioneering into new luxury, the way covered wagons once did; canvas closed, oxen quietly moving on into territory that's hard to imagine. I see him standing near his wide columned front door He is smiling the way I smile when I think no one is looking. I like him, and imagine his beautiful wife in my arms. We have left the wagon train, have struck out on our own, we found the green valley; gold seams under our feet, the land is already posted to keep others out.