I examine the figures and the boy, and Holt asks,
As if expecting me to have changed my mind,
"And are you still determined to go down the pit?"
Foolish question. Squished into a coal cart, I ride
The rail, smacking my head once, and then the lad
Behind me says belatedly, "Mind your head, mister."
But I rise above it, as we glide lower into darkness.
I think, again, of Ann's idea about music on trains,
And I think again, I should always want fiddlers
To play a jig to keep up with my always moving
Body and my always-moving mind. Down here,
I can imagine digging money out of the hills
Hand over fist, imagine not constantly chasing
After someone with more per year <though that
Would be the part that wouldn't matter, the fortune,
If they could dig me my own from my land, and I
Could focus on simply finding someone with whom
I shared tastes, with whom I could share my evenings>.