A bag of food for Saturday,
And maybe Sunday if it lasts.
It shouldn't be this hard to stay
Alive and see beyond the past.
The dragon takes the mother's claw
And holds the flame that heats the tar,
Coal-colored death drawn through a straw
In West Virginia's town called War.

The sun comes late in mountain towns,
On roads that need a new repair,
Still dark when buses make their rounds,
To draw the children from their lair,
Who learn at school some poetry,
That won't alleve this poverty.