Black Lung

Looking into the distance,
I can glimpse my future;
clean crisp air over green mountains
rising high over deep coal mines.

In our family, blood runs black,
lungs are furnaces,
fire is in their belly.
No control, it eats away.

At fourteen, I am next
to pick up my lighted hat,
and descend into the pits of hell.
A curse hides as tradition.

My sweet dark daddy,
shriveled body, racking cough
sits at the table, can't eat.
A mirror, this could be me.

Work should not kill a man,
It can be a source of pride.
All can change with a vision.
I throw my hat, run; I am alive.