Determined eyes. Chiseled granite.

Men full of strength. Sycamore

trees with arms; skin of mules and rigid

steeled hands. Their youth bottle necked

with fights and chain link fence. Clapboard

shacks leaned with time. Clothes were coal

smoke soaked. Dust was the life of everything.

It was a place of bold brassy men with beer driven

slurs and work on their shirts as they

stumbled home.


And when the rain came it washed the

worst clean, with a shine of temporary hope.

Winter snow covered the rust and rubble

until spring weeds filled in the cracks.



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