By: Phillip Parotti
Here they come, the apostles of speed,
Street brats in worn out baggy pants,
Scattering profanities like cigarette butts
Between old women with quivering knees.
Last days in the copper pit,
Afternoon games and iced cold beer,
Languid girls at rest in the sun,
Comfort we were not born to find.
The mines closed, the hoppers empty.
Spent smelter smoke the color of money
Flops breathless on the furnace floor
Mocking the face of maturity.
When Our Boys went off to war,
It was our job to wave flags,
Those of us still in short pants,
Those of us too young to know.
We built bunkers in hedges
Up and down Pine Avenue,
Aimed toy rifles at the Nazi foe,
That exploded in our faces,
Not so very long ago.