Chugga Chugga

The shovel blade sliced the coal pile.  A couple lumps tumbled down,
shaking off sooty veils and rolling past his ankles,
leaving trails. 
He shuffled a crumbling dozen  - crammed into the furnace. 
The sleeping orange light reared up near the back,
on its hind legs, and moaned, and he
turned to get some more. 

Another crumbling dozen. 
The beast fidgeted.  It licked at its bars
and they were caked over with a brittle black crust. 
It reached out now and then, a hand like a lady’s
with a snappy palm and a come-here wrist. 

It bade him come, bring more coal. 

And when he did, she let her mind go and threw up her arms wildly and didn’t acknowledge him as anything more than the conduit through which she got her thrill, that thrill, that thrill, oh, ho-ho-ho. 

He wore crunchy black shackles and she knocked them knowingly. 
There and back, there and back.

When he got back, he was afraid but didn’t change pace.  The train tracks screamed,
scolded by heavy hot wheels,
and the floor boards vibrated like hell was breaking loose. 
And the sun glared against the back of his neck like it was his fault. 
His neck turned bright pink, a kettle over a fire.  When he rubbed it,
it stung. 

The coal-wolfing demon did not seem so menacing anymore. 
He pandered to her wants – no matter how carnal –
and he told the sun to blame her, not to blame him, for he was just the enabler, nothing but.
It's not his fault.  It's really not.