Dust In The Air! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! Poem by john (called jack) wren

Dust in the air.

My feet placed apart
Shovel in hand,
As coal from the cart
Drops on command.
Spine and shoulder
Tense with delight
Biceps feel bolder
Up for the fight.
To dispense this heap
Of pure black rock,
With the steady sweep
Of the hand of a clock.
Through the wicket-door
With its battered frame,
To land on the floor
In jubilant acclaim.
Coal dust in the air
That drifts up the nose
Coal dust on the hair,
That falls on clothes
Mixing with sweat
On hand and face,
In a game of roulette
Where black holds the ace.
Dust that searches
Deep inside,
Into parts that
Are occupied.
With air breathed in
Then breathed out,
Fighting its way through
The throat checkout.
Leaving one to
Cough and choke
Delivering black coal
Is certainly no joke.
To release it completely
From the skin,
Soak in hot water
Supplied in a tin.