The Fiefdom

What should have made a difference was destination, but not to me though. I lay back against the slope of the bottom, looked up into cloudy skies, and settled back for a dreamy train ride into hobo heaven. As luck would have it, that corn liquor fellar quickly bragged around the store how he flung a nosy young'n into a coal car. He didn't remember which one. Although in a small town, who cares? Everybody cares about finding him. In due time the train stopped and a face appeared. That man told me about it years later, said I was just sitting there in all that dirt humming a tune without a care in the world, exactly as any hillbilly kid is supposed to do. The Fiefdom From Hell's cold, desolate heart cometh Legions of serfs, who like blind mules slave For King Coal and his vassals. At quitting time, the lowly emerge on the sun-bleached surface; Their eyes blinded, blinking, burning, bleeding as Black sweat trickles down their bony, dirty faces. They think not of the old men, whose shriveled lungs belch The very same stuff that killed the canaries years ago. But for their children they say a silent prayer, For the mountains to part, a pass to open for young refugees Emigrating the fiefdom. But the only road that seems to be Open even for their brightest young minds is a well-worn trail, A downward spiral into the abysm. —Dave Payne 76 ...