The Miner

wears a cotton protective mask,
bleached cotton scraping
tenderness of skin

only twenty years old, man-child
sharing a paycheck with
mom and family

trudges two miles across quiet
streets, listens to the breath
of early morn, silence is

behind those windows, even
cars and bicycles
stationary in
layers of contentment

humming mine continues to draw
him into its yawn of smelter

tall stacks, molten copper awaiting
preparations of shaped moulds

splashing heat anxious to
become square-shaped anodes.

© Richard L. Provencher

First published January 2004 Issue 8
INK MAGAZINE