the little silver train

lent against a wooden truck
grubby face covered in muck
waiting to leave in the little train
precious grin flashing again
a toot and puff
and the engine takes off
belching smoke from tiny funnel
rattling into dingy tunnel

I see you next two hours later
stone faced, dead eyed, crouched in a crater
cowed by heat sapped by dust
coughing phlegm snot red rust
under ground a mile or more
picking, hacking at earth’s core
gelignite bangs, a strange smell lingers
as you mine silver with pitted fingers
I ask your age and fear the answer
‘twelve, señor and condemned to cancer’