Cellar Door

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.