The railroad is good to us,
repairing the tracks
straightaway
so food and water
and the blankets of city folks
can get to us.
Joseph’s out on the line now,
since almost the first minute,
finding ways to get the trains through
even if he has to lead the cars
one by one
like skittish horses across a stream.
His work is interrupted every few minutes
by another newspaperman
from a city I will never see
wanting to hear the whole story again,
wanting to know if he’s aware that he’s a hero
and that important people all over the country
convey invitations to tea.
My Joseph has charming ways, though,
saying, “There’s too much work to be done.”
That and his smile seem to satisfy the newspapermen.
Just what a hero would say—
I read it in their faces as they scribble.
They shake hands,
tip their silly hats,
and canter down the hill
back to Johnstown.
Barrels of whisky appear first,
before food or water.
Some of the men indulge in the evenings
at the edge of the camp.
Every man wants to toast my husband,
slap his back
with teary-eyed gratitude
and offers of gifts when we all get back on our feet.
Some nights he doesn’t make it home at all—
home being the ring of stones
where I tend my fire
and the pile of dirty blankets I rock our babies to sleep in.
This is my hearth.
Come back to my hearth.
I don’t know how much more gratitude I can bear.