The Shiny Distractions

Amid bowling ball rocks,
scattered through the gravel,
tiny sparkles distract me
as I load trailers
from the old stream-bed
to haul off later.

Gleams lying of wealth,
mostly flakes of mica
from shattered quartz chunks
to the rotten stuff
the locals call granite,
but fails hardness tests.

'Cause of my appearance,
the heavy packs carried,
some called me "Prospector"
and this ol' bar
tempts me to try
runnin' a few pans.

But I know well
That's futility talkin' there,
as at the best
a few small flakes
is all that won't
float away on trying.

Sadly, despite hopes raised,
I'll get more cash
from the old cans
left from kids' parties
when this lot lay
empty, awaiting a building.

Not to mention pennies
from some subcontractor's ashtray
tossed out one day
by the front entry.
Then again, who knows?
Without pan, not I.

My thoughts turn again
to the distant headwaters
of that shifting stream,
The Little Cottonwood Canyon,
where old mines lay...
so there's a chance.

Some of those holes
held precious metals inside,
just as many failed
according to books read
the last few years
while at the Library.

So waiting for awhile,
I wander around slowly,
glancing down at soil
that beckons me constantly
to use things around
to take a stab.

Got a hose handy,
but ain't a clue
as to how one
should use it here
as a poor-man's sluice.
Probably better that way.

Better I just sit,
smoking my pipe quietly.
For knowing my luck
the neighbors would complain
about me placer mining
inside the city limits.

The bar's likely claimed,
or already played out,
save those few reflections
begging me to try
like foolish folk before,
only to be disappointed.

Back to work, boy.
Nothing here for you
save those aluminum cans,
the abandoned pennies, and
weeds amid the rock,
that also need pulling.

Then again, maybe... tossing a handful onto the pavement?

23July2014 - Dyfedd Rex