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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© Richard McCusker (jotoma@bellsouth.net)
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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.
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