My dad used to take his

round tin lunch pail

and go work

in the coal mine every day.

He came home once,

white-faced

(except for the black coal

dust around the eyes)

lunch pail in hand.

He told us

that when he stopped for lunch,

A huge boulder

dropped into the seat

of the mining, machine,

the "miner", right into the spot

where he would have been sitting.

He missed death

by the force of his appetite.

From then on,

we held our goings

and comings

Like something fragile,

cradled in cupped hands.