Rock

As the coal train screeches by,

I think of the dust

from which they died,

their oxygen tanks

only a palliative,

their suffocation

normal and expected,

the inherent risk of a

transitory prosperity.

 

Yesterday, I read

about their sons

and daughters,

crouching in seams

heavier in rock,

suffocating earlier

than expected

from the white dusts.

 

It’s a scandal to the writer,

romanticizing

about the power of words.

 

But the screeching trains

still run on schedule,

their ribbons of cars,

mounded with coal.

 

The power of words

knows no brakeman

as industry lobbyists

refute the

dangers

of

rock.

 

Under their avalanche.

politicians are broken.

 

And, in the towns

by the tracks,

funeral directors

draw new business plans.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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