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Son of a Mining Man
I shared his God awful existence,
That cruel conveyor belt lifestyle
Of regulated, rotated shift work,
His days, his afters, his nights.
Coal dust mascara eyes, ingrained
Deep fake tan, those blue bruises
And the mandatory fresh raw gash,
A battered boxer meets drag queen,
Standard hallmarks of a coal face
Worker, bread winner, no shirker.
Many years on it still plagues me, I hear it,
His gut wrenching hacking, wheezing cough.
One third…that Woodbine blight
One third…his brutal bronchitis
On third…common coal tar cocktail
A breed apart…My Dad…the mining man