Native Steel

I am the American worker coal fired for refined thieves on the thirty first floor. My secrets rest roadside beyond the guardrail where ditched alleys lead to rowhouses. A list of porches repeating to each other the economics of wear. My secrets shuffle moon-side with motors in gear. A scourge of trucks that drone and stab the night. My dignified rails drive mountain passes, but fade in stories written backwards. I belong to the wheels whipping the black spell of trains. The scuff strummin' Guthries and Union Maids, Debs, Robeson, The destination of all trains; Railroad Bill. I am the American worker searching the seasons for decent belongings, secret rhythms last whistles, Mt tempered native steel. Published Black Buzzard Press - 1982