The Coal

As I’ve never been burnt, sitting in a rusty tin like a Spanish gold galleon, awaiting breaking on American dry dock.
As generic faces glance, like a dog with his eyes on a ball and sit gallantly on a rock.
From the day I was dug from a dusty, filthy colliery on the curve.
Into a stove, into the tender but never humidly decapitated with nerve.
As to be today standing on a shelf, like my Grandma’s old, creepy doll.
Now gazed upon like a museum piece, and amusing to say myself.