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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