Good Neighbor Poem by Carolyn Brunelle

It was tuberculosis from breathing all that dust;
most thought ‘Black Lung’ there in the hill country.
Coal miners usually went that way,
but he never spent a day in the mines;
never smoked, drank spirits, or was ever sick
that anyone could ever recollect.
In younger days, his long legs made him a good logger’s living
in the mountains he was born and grew up in; a lifelong
hearty appreciation for Grandma’s cooking
never left more than a few scraps for the hogs after meals.
And oh how he loved his front porch
especially in summer when the sun hung on longer.
He’d sit and rock, wave at drivers through red dust clouds;
exchange “howdies” with anyone passing by
where he lived on an old dirt road to town.
Lots of folks he already knew, some not yet,
but all were made welcome to cool water;
a little shady rest there on the porch with him
as they made their way home from their day.
He just figured it was the neighborly thing to do.