Slowly turns the miner,
his carbide lamp lit—
he thinks of the sooty miles below.
The bowerbird hops,
lifts the clear wrapper of a toffee a miner’s son
several weeks ago held up to
his departing dad,
and brings it home.
Thanks for checking out my poem.
Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!