Working: A poem for May Day in the Upper Cumberland

WORKING

Troy D. Smith

Coal dust settles on me like black snow

Choking in the darkness

Sweat and soot making grime

Soaking into the clothes

From the company store.

Lint swirls around me, blowing fans

Only moving the heat around

Shirt factory whistle sharp in my ear

Walking through the fallen buttons

Fallen faces, fallen wages

Chunking rocks in muddy fields

Clearing the way for bright leaf dreams

Scent of tobacco curing in faded barns

Splinters from tobacco sticks

Break on callused hands

Grandkids now grown toil away

Stocking shelves, shining floors

Making change at drive-through windows

Everything has changed

Nothing has changed

Driving down from the mountain

Window open to the chill morning air

Watching the people drive to work

Trudging yet hopeful, finding joys

In simple things, finding strength

In Psalms and prayers and Johnny Cash

As the Caney Fork flows slowly by

(fish are biting somewhere)

As pride in labor, and dignity, and humanity

Still manage to take root

And weather the sun, and reach for the sky

Always reaching, always proud,

Working.