Coal

I am eight
Visiting my Dad’s
Parents in Southern
Illinois at Christmastime.
My first surprise is the odor
Of burning coal to heat the house.
The odor is unforgettably crisp
Black shiny going in, clinkers
Coming out too fascinating
Not to use the iron poker
To shake down clinkers
But my elder sisters
Try to take away
The poker and
I accidentally
Burn a spot
On one of
Em’ but
T’other
Got it
Away
From me
Ending my early
Career as a train fireman
And I was sent to bed early
In disgrace yet the odor of
Burning coal is around
Me and in the night I
Rise from my pallet
Of old covers on
The floor by the
Furnace in the
Middle of the
Living room
On to the
Coal bin
Taking
Out a
Chunk of
Anthracite black
Shiny and opening
The furnace door, toss
It into the flames amid sparks
While my sisters sleep or at
Least pretend to as once
Burned twice shy and
It is a cold night
Even under
Blankets
Close to
A coal
Fire.