My Grandparents' Generation, and My Parents'

They glare at me from photographs
Somebody in some raw wood, mud street
Mining town was paid to take:
My ancestors, the men in black,
Stiff collars, ragged haircuts, sunken
Eyes, sometimes, and hollow cheeks,
The women, also dressed in black,
And thin and looking very tired,
Often with kids at their feet. They
Did their time, bored into mountains,
Carried water, fought the snow,
And tried to keep their kids alive.
The kids grew up. A few stayed on
To work the mines and face the cold,
But most left, seeking softer lives.
They're dead now, too, but, in their
Pictures, they have gotten chubby,
And they do not glare. They smile.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 31 times
Written on 2020-05-19 at 16:23

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