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I first noticed your hands: grimy
and black with coal
dust. Your thin face
was smudged with coal black streaks, your shirt
too
grey for any detergent
to ever clean. You leaned wearily
on the wood
fence, slowly tamping
tobacco in your corn cob pipe.
But when you started
telling me
about your favorite grandchild,
your eyes grew clean and
strong with love.
