Pitchblende
I've been prospecting since I was twelve
for something to sell at the mint,
but I wasn't even digging pyrite.
Instead, my attic is an alpenglow
that only pays the bills
as a Atomic Cafe punchline.
I'll be an idiot and scramble
past radium for a few grams of light,
to the eight hundred seventy-two million years
until the planets march in single file again.
By then I should have lead,
and an alchemist on speed dial.
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