Appalachian Valley, 1962

In the distance, summer lightning

Followed by faint thunder.

We leave the highway and drive down
Toward the town between the mountains.
The slopes are slag-covered, silent.
The insides have been chipped away
By immigrant miners, now unemployed,
Old, or forever six-feet under.
Their wives and widows watch us
Blankly from their sagging porches
As we drive deeper into the valley,
Past abandoned mines, forsaken stores,
The almost empty streets of Appalachia.

A blond boy stares, transfixed
By our blue exotic license plate.

It’s a sleepless night for us
Until you stop bleeding in the morning.
An afternoon of recriminations, resolutions,
Then the slow ascent at dusk out of the valley.
The rear-view mirror reveals
Dozens of lights flickering below,
Like fireflies looking for a mate.

A road sign tells us which way to go,
How many miles from home we are.
But we know in journeys of this sort,
You’re never anything but lost,
Never know how far you’ve come,
How far you have to go,
What the meaning, or the cost.