My Black Lung

my father's hands worked their way right thorugh his gloves
through thirty years of drought and flood
thrity years of doubt and love
tracing gridroads daily
moving in straight lines
travelling from work back to the farm
from the quarry to the morgue
we grow into our father's shoes
into our father's barstools
we fill the roles we're born to play
this is one phase we never grow out of... still saying this will never happen to me
my mother kept a tidy house
father tried to keep her happy
but twelve hour shifts six days a week
hardly constitutes a family
hardly constitutes a life
it kept food on the table but it kept us up at night
we grow into our father's shoes
into our father's barstools
we fill the roles we're born to play
this is one phase we never grow out of... still saying this will never happen to me
if you'll be there when i need you
then don't say you're leaving now
i'm up in arms until you reach me,
breathing through these blackened lungs
here the minutes die like days,
and the weeks follow the same
will you be there with open arms to save me?
my father's heart wore it's way right off his sleeve
through thirty years of priase and scorn
thirty years of sun and storm
tracing gridroads daily
moving in sraight lines
travelling from work back to the fam
from the quarry to the morgue