This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN#/ISBN# issue/book “a Pick for the Future” cc&d, v275 (the Sept. 2017 issue) Order this as a 6"x9" paperback book:

Order this writing in the issue book Language of Untamed Spirit the cc&d Sept.-Dec.2017 collection book		get the 4 page May-August 2017 cc&d magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Poverty

Charles Hayes

    Wishing that I could just travel on out of here like the trains that run these tracks or the river that flows beside them, I trek on, two ties a stride. Or sometimes I line walk a single rail. But not much different from people in hell wanting ice water, I suspect, I know that I am stuck in these Appalachian coal digs for a long time to come. At least I’m out of the hollow for a change. Can’t remember the last time I came down to follow the river. Up there the apartness seems to grow on you until you become two different kinds, like a grafted tree. Part of me homes and takes on the aloneness while the other part is shocked at how funny the words come out when I have to talk to the mail carrier.
    Shoving my hands in my pockets it’s no surprise that there is plenty of room for them to make a fist. Or that there’s a hole in one of my pockets. Up the hollow it doesn’t much matter but up ahead, in town, I’ll have to pick my spots carefully. Money matters. Sharing my tack with the coal trains and the following plumes of coal dust only adds to it. People can smell it. No matter how much I dust off. And they become leery....especially with my balled up pockets. But I know a place. Other side of the tracks, different color, but friendly, where pockets are as balled up as mine. And when friends of friends come off the Amtrak, down from D.C. with a little money, they know the score......having once been here themselves. Good times are cheap............. even for them.

***

    Henry, an old half blind World War Two veteran who also lives alone, may not even be open. The Amtrak’s not due for an hour and there‘s not much going on down here around the switching yards. Just some empty coal cars parked by his nondescript old brick building. Having no other place to go, I may as well try the door. There’s no other way to know for sure.
    Pushing on the front door, I am relieved to see it swing open into a dimly lit and deserted bar, the only light coming from some liquor and beer neon signs and their reflections in the long mirror that backs the mahogany bar. At the far end of the rich dark wood, eating a plate of what smells like refried beans, fried chicken, and cabbage, sits Henry. My long perspective down the bar, like looking through the big end of a hand telescope, shows Henry squinting back at me through his thick glasses. The separation it emphasizes, Henry having his meal and me fresh off the tracks, is unavoidable. Figuring that he can see me well enough but in a hurry to add my voice to his senses, I say, “What’s cooking Henry, think you can start me a tab for a meal and some drinks?”
    In his cantankerous way, not being a slight, just his dislike for the niceties that he considers a useless drain on his remaining years, Henry pushes himself up, goes over to his Warm Morning and returns with a plate of cornbread, beans, and cabbage. Muttering to himself as if self directing, he places it atop the bar a few feet from where he is sitting. Getting back to his plate, he finally speaks to me.
    “You smell like cinders.”
    My first bite of cornbread already halfway to my mouth, I pause and watch him sit back down.
    Eyes averted, grinning at his plate while his bald head slightly shakes, Henry is having a little fun.
     Certainly not the first ribbing I’ve experienced, I smile until he looks around and sees that he got me.
    “When the tracks are all you got to grace your place from,” I say, “that will happen.”
    “Yeah, I know,” he says while mopping up his plate with his last bit of corn bread. “Ain’t no chicken left. I ate the last piece. Eat up, I’ll carry you.”
    Standing and taking his dishes to the sink, Henry reaches into the cooler and comes out with a bottle of Stroh’s, opens it, and slides it over by my plate.
    With an ear for the Amtrak, I finish my plate and nurse my beer while Henry putters around the bar, chuckling and muttering about the smell of cinders.

***

    At first light, back on the tracks going upstream, feeling hungover and tired, I almost piss myself when a muskrat streaks out from under the rails, crosses my foot, and goes over the river bank. My lethargy suddenly gone, I wonder at the wild poverty of this land. Maybe having little to nothing just comes with the territory and all things are as they should be. Trying to get my mind around this thought with miles yet to go is difficult. But as the sun finally breaks the ridgeline and the leafless limbs begging from the sky, I figure that after all that is, my poverty is not cowed. I am just poor.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...