Scranton’s hist’ry of sound
Speaks in my failure to say “t”
Especially in the
middle of words where it blends deep
As silt in the murky
Lacky’s orange brown blood spurts
From the bore hole. Flooded
Mines innervate the soul
Of the hard-packed valleys
With mountains that shift and shape us.
Revenge on the glaciers?
Smells like a Folger’s scented hug
Hugs wake the mind, replete
The lungs that skip t’s and stand on
“I’s” iota in “crick”
To get a clearer view of home