White Coal

In my youth, I used to sing as I walked
in public, hoping a man would hear me
and fall in love with my weakness. None did.
Now I am white coal, flowing, renewable.
Which is not to say I’m experienced
in earthly matters; I am only charwood.

In this charred land no law forbids music,
but men do not believe in beauty; they,
businesslike, treat weakness with contempt.
But, just once, as I sang “The Age of Not
Believing” on the waterfront, a woman,
with her grandson, passed me by and smiled.

Author's Note

Published in Eunoia Review, Jan. 2026:
https://eunoiareview.wordpress.com/2026/01/23/white-coal/