The little silver train

(Potosi Bolivia July 2000)

Lent against a wooden truck

grubby face covered in muck

waiting to leave in the little train

precious grin flashing again

a toot and a 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 senor and condemned to cancer