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
Copyright © Thomas Wells | Year Posted 2020
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