| I was then just a little guy - Next to him, only elbow high, But, six decades later, I still can’t erase The sight of black tracings all over his face Where fingers often brushed to get At his cap brim clinging with sweat. I wondered if this fellow covered in grime Was allowed to wear dirty clothes all the time. The cellar window he’d prop with a stick, Then rush on back to his rumbling truck quick, And yank a long metal chute from its slot - One more, too, if he’d parked in the wrong spot, Too far from the cellar window, Because of the high drifts of snow. Was he in a hurry to get home To bathe, where he’d soak in soapy foam, Trying to remove all that soot Covering him from head to foot? |
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He pulled the lever and up it went – The whole back of the truck! And that sent Coal clanging noisily against the rear truck wall. He attached the chute, slid the trap and let it fall. He’d always stand there behind the truck With a shovel in case coal got stuck On its rattling crashing slide to the floor Of the bin below where we had to store The ebony chunks next to the furnace, Or else they would spill all over the place. Then, truck empty, he’d go to the cab, Take off his filthy work gloves, and grab A paper from the seat for Mom to keep In exchange for the money he’d sweep Up from her milky white palm - The price we paid to keep warm. The coal heap I then got to climb up on To lock the window after he was gone. |