the furnace

all day you stand
at the furnace, shoveling
coal,
questioning your life.
your face is black.
your arms stained.
you cough and wipe
your eyes with a grey
rag.
the fire burns inside
the squared mouth.
it roars,
telling you something
in a language all
its own. you bend
and lift another shovel
full of coal,
throwing it in,
making the fire grow.
there are no answers
to anything,
there is just this that
needs to be done.