The word mines

Each day I carry it: a sack of ideas

My back is bent. Been doing it for years

Past the theatre that won’t let me in

Past pubs, those gilded palaces of sin

Each day, I place imagery in my bag

No-one acknowledges my grind

To recover poetry from mere slag

For my hardship is of the wrong kind

No-one notices me. I don’t care

As I struggle to unearth simile

It’s dark and dangerous down there

Sifting through mere spoil for poetry

No-one sees me and no light shines

It’s dangerous and dark in the word mines