- Non-Erotic Poetry
- Cellar Door
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I looked down into that hole
where dust motes roll
by in the air. That place
where fuel once filled
the ancient black-stained
bin of oak and coal dust
roiled through the space.
The hist'ry's enough
to make you choke
on a Cape Bretoner's grief.
Relief comes with death
when the miner's drawn
his shaky last breath
and the company store
sends his new widow
and orphans
a sympathy card.
- COMMENTS
LeBrozabout 17 years agoThis poem was mentioned in the Archival Review thread, in a picking through Lit's archive of over 35,000 poems.
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LeBrozabout 17 years agoIt sounds so innocent yet that's slowly stripped away to the depressing conclusion.
WickedEvealmost 19 years agoThis is my first chance to read your cellar poem. Quite nicely written--especially the first half of it.
