Partial Victory

a poem by Dan Standing

Golden skin, auric form.
Bosom pushed up high.
Lips just parted for a moan.
Above I hear a storm.

Got inside, hunting wealth.
Palace guards let me go by.
“Prostitute.” – much skin is shone.
So I have no need for stealth.

Moving quick I look for signs,
Where does that treasury lie?
Instead I find a brilliant throne,
And a king who’s eyes have lines.

“Who are you?” his question said,
His smile thin and wry.
“A present sir, call me Simone.”
And I strip from feet to head.

“I think, in truth, you’re seeking gold,”
He says, but doesn’t pry.
“Dance some to this silent tone,
And have all that I can hold.”

I shimmy forward, arms out wide,
Every part of me so spry.
Standing on my toes alone,
He reaches while I stride.

His hand brushes upon my ass,
So chill I want to cry.
My body stiffens up like stone.
Now he starts to give me sass.

“Enjoy my gift, my work of art,”
He says with voice so sly.
“That lie you told was deftly sown,
But truth was in your heart.”

His hands caress my every inch,
My skin no longer ply.
His finger’s paths have greatly grown,
He gives my nipples such a pinch.

Through me now I feel a change.
I still can’t move, although I try.
My ruse was quickly blown.
This is my punishment most strange.

Now I’m perched on marble stand,
And glitter under sky.
I have my gold, but none to own,
Thanks to Midas’ cold hand.