Pulling Nets

I don’t have any battle scars
bullets buried so deep that
if I shift a little while sleeping
my heart might stop –
no late night encounters on
a T train to southy,
where Quincy thugs tried to rob me
and beat me when they found
how trim my accounts were;
but I did meet Peter in Farmington,
between the bollo shops,
as the engine slid into its greasy skids –
he had those big broad shoulders
you might expect from physical men
who’d made two thousand years
by pulling nets.


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