Appalachian Flowers

when industry blossomed

the smoke billowed

from every smokestack.

Workers with black hands

carried their hearts in steel

pails; a half eaten bologna

sandwich cut thick, banana

peel for the compost

and an empty moon pie

wrapper graced the inside.

they come home to their wives

who yell at them to wipe

their boots at the door, kiss

them on the cheek and warn

against touching anything.

warm smells and piping coffee

await their non-discerning

palates as they pray

to God above to bless the meal,

just to wash up, eat, go to bed

early to do it again

the next day, until words are read

about the good man with lungs

full of soot

laid to rest with the stacks

of rubble that used to prosper

on the backs of men,

like the Kentucky homestead

at dusk when the wind rakes the leaves

with such fervency you’d swear

someone used to live here.