Coal
"It’s a dying winter, lad” he would say
crunching his words around
a gnawed pipe stem.
Then one day he went back up
the gravel path
to his small, low cottage,
with its oily cans, coal dust kettles,
its sooty cats
never to be seen again.
This morning, decades later,
I see him from a black grate
where embers and ash
form a remembered warmth.
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