Growing up in a camp for
coal miners, I remember
learning what it means to be
dirt poor—having no proper
flooring in your house, only
the bare ground: maybe four walls,
some semblance of a ceiling
overhead to shield you from
yonder elements outside.
Not that I had to worry
about such things, ever, but
I had a friend who lived thus.
He paid no mind to his state
of housing, preoccupied
getting one good meal a day
either from school, or neighbor.
No running water, he washed
himself hardly at all, so
none but I and one other
would get close enough to sit
next to him in the lunchroom.
He told such funny stories,
when I smell need for a bath,
I clear see his comic smile.
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