Mountains, Molehills

A pile of dirt dressed up in a mountain’s clothing 
A working man’s pile of rocks
but a ball and chain for the drowning man
a bucket of cement spilled across flowering dirt
but the girl is known for crying wolf 
so a mountain has become a molehill

while the dogs come at the blow of whistle
tearing and biting at scraps of meat 
slavering mouths that consume
the yellow pages of journalist notes
as a foremen brings the hammer down 

the coal burns hotter than any other fuel 
but oil is expensive these days 
worth more than the average dollar 
now that’s a molehill mountain 
dressed in expensive leather for the fire 

a working man’s pile of coal
the color of lungs is worth 
the switch from red to black
more money for the non-worker 
whose check balances with zeros lined in gold
this mountains nothing more than a molehill
pick yourself up by your bootstraps
 
 

Shelby Rogers is a poet and writer living in Tennessee. She graduated with a Creative and Professional Writing degree from Cumberland University. Her poems have been published in Cafe Review, New Square, and previous editions of Novus Literary Arts Journal.