Tattered blue shirt,
and navy-blue sweat pants–
a 10-inch knife hanging
out of the left pocket–
are worn by the fisherman.
His black skin is as tough
as leather, seemingly sown
onto his face, which has a tired
expression, neither sad
nor happy, neither affirming
success nor affirming failure.
He moves to park a moped
on the sidewalk by the coffee
house as he positions two fishing
poles and a bucket of tools, and
I wonder how he drives
all that stuff down the road,
remembering that Jesus’s
disciples were fishermen, too.
Raleigh, NC
Aril 11, 2013
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