The mine was deep, the vein was old,
with small reward for lives mundane
and paltry means, their quests for gold,
that though begun, would not sustain.
The quarry crept into their crux,
addiction to the dust and ore,
to sulphur smell and sludge in flux,
and chance to land the one great score.
Though sometimes riches were declared,
enough to spur the seekers on,
most often mines would cease impaired
before new veins were hit upon.
Now corporations own the lands,
consider which to mine or close,
machines to work the rocky bands,
the riches kept by CEO's.
Jack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana.