Coal Miners' Hands :: ajd144 :: Original Poetry

Coal Miners' Hands

Their hands are black;

Black as a night without a star,

Black as the bottom of a two mile hole,

So black it’s now the only color they are.

And those hands crack

And they bleed;

Producing dollar bill filled blisters

From whence penniless callouses will proceed

Then those rough hands head home

At seven, three, or eleven,

Leaving black fingerprints as they go—

Reminders of the metal caged ascent from hell to heaven.