There are not many leaves. There was no time for trees When Picher was born. But now there are small trees That make a little shade. The children play in the dust The mellow, hot, hot dust Along the broken sidewalks. The houses squat low on the ground. The houses stare, and hug a tailing pile. The children run up and down And over and across -- (And -- occasionally -- @3one is drowned@1 in the mill ponds left unguarded); The husbands come wearily home With an empty battered dinner bucket In one hand And a powder box in the other. When the sun stares around a rock pile Across the pond -- They come wearily home in the evening. The children run barefoot to meet them; The fathers are as tall as the trees And they as the trees Bend wearily above the earth. |