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Poem

I toss a lot of poem slag out there.
In fact, I've got piles of it everywhere.
It's gotten a little out of control.
If my muse were a house they would have leveled it, a long time ago-

I like to think that there's bits of shine.
Amongst the rubbish of my mind,
but doesn't everybody think the same at times.
Every now and again a loyal soul or two, 
Silently come by to pick through the piles of gray.
Doesn't matter if it's cold or raining lye.
They come with shovel and pail in hand. 
Collection vials in case they strike some shine.

Sometimes, not very often, I invite them into my home.
For a warm cup of life, something sweet for sticking by my side. 
Through the rainy decades and all those slag heap times.
Thank you so much my loyal slag angels,
Good luck and keep digging for the shine.

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