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
