“fifty three dollars”
a miner’s son heard the whistle scream
within the summit pass. a coal smudged
vignette exhales dark
dust. on the horizon
pleas from the northern
wind and eastern
rain. green eyes to the thunderhead
that called him home ‘cross the crick
and through the thousand oaks.
a walk spent wondering who’d lay in
aching arms or fill his glass with
dime-store whiskey.
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