When I knew them as boys
shooting spit wads at Principal Martin
and sneaking peeks at the fishnet hose
of our young 4th grade teacher Ms. McCall,
they already sneered like grown men
with jobs as haul truck drivers
or longwall miners for Independence Coal.

They already had wives whose girlhood
dreams had fallen flat as cakes
dislodged from Easy Bake Ovens,
whose cheerleader smiles were swapped
for a Bud and a bottle of Oxy.

Even then, slipping on sneakers
instead of steel-toed boots, their houses had an air
of lumberyard sawdust and coal-tar pitch.
Their lunches carried the stench of onions
and potted meat. Their hands, stained yellow
by Camels they’d snatch from their father’s packs,
were already calloused and gashed.

And how they dropped then crushed
the finished butts beneath their feet
said failure; though, they still stood,
that harness of smoke encircling them, watching
and waiting for their futures to begin.