The Miner’s Daughter
Her daddy’s old black lunch box is the same
almost as when he first began to dig
for coal. He stood quite tall and wasn’t lame
at first, and never coughed till she got big—
well, ten is old enough to read his eyes—
but when he tucks his lunch beneath his arm
and gently kisses her goodbye, she cries
inside and tries to smother her alarm.
She watches at the window every day,
her kitty by her side, and hopes to see
him come back home less tired than before.
Or just return. The newsmen have a way
of scaring girls. As hard as it can be
to wait, she wears a smile at the front door.
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