Murder for Profit

He sat on the step, his boots in the dirt.
The sun beating down, through his sweat-stained shirt.
He coughed and he hacked, he cursed, and he spit.
His lungs had got worse, but he dared not quit.

This piece-o-shit house, with no ventilation,
Was given to him, with mock veneration.
It’s cinderblock walls, were heartless and cold.
The corners up high, were spotted with mold.

He’d answered the phone, the call was quite clear.
There wasn’t much time, she wanted him near.
He sat in despair, not wanting to go,
Unable to face, unwilling to know.

He resigned himself, and went to his truck.
The damn thing started, so much for good luck.
As he drove cross the rez, he thought of her there,
Hard-working each day, in the gray poisoned air.

He’d worked there that day, in the uranium mine,
that did not exist, the government line.
He had almost died, in that hellish abyss.
The foreman his boss, had been sorely remiss.

The dust from the fall, drifted low in the air.
From Edgemont to Martin, it settled right there.
Some showed no sign, of the dark evil curse,
but the young and the old, all called for the nurse.

He coughed once more, as he walked to the door,
That little wood house, how he’d loved it before.
It would smell of sweetgrass, and venison stew.
Now it just smelled, like the hospitals do.

He walked to her bed, as she set down her cup,
and his skin turned cold, when her dark eyes looked up.
She spoke without speaking, for far too long,
Till she found a few words, that were not wrong.

“Tell me my son”, as he lowered his head,
“Does the Owl call my name, or yours instead?