Cu
the forlorn echo of wind
barreling down a deserted avenue
blanketed in a shimmery layer
of undisturbed powder
of thieving silence and darkness
reminisces of a time
called poetry and a people
named hardship, paid in
poverty and stooped backs
and lung disease and short lives
sacrificing for the man in the mansion
and the bottom line except when striking
in the lines in the cold in the snow
men and boys working life without parole
wives mixing crusted pillows
of heat and home for tomorrow's
journey to deep, dark, damp
dusty boots darken the fresh sugar coating
of dreams and desires to get to
that precious pipe in the wall, illuminated
by three flickers, and all day clink clinking
quelling the soul's treacherous uprising
the only escape: to leave this
world - and body - behind.
How odd it came by trampling.