These others were once golden:
for I can feel it in their stances.
Their postures the product of some man (or

woman if Death or Tragedy had so decided).

The chubby ones with the bald faces buried slow behind papers:
Their fathers had taught them to hide.

The gangly ones with the awkward knees
that slept:
Their fathers had taught them too much.

The ones with the striking faces,
With the curly hair,
and the quiet look,
Who drank up the faces of the men around them,
who stared holes into the passing hills:

Their fathers hadn't taught them anything.

The rust-red doors open.
The Sons and Daughters
exit.
And a few enter; followed by smoke and coal,
meeting the Devil on the noon train.