Fisher of Men

The city was wild with danger,

men who knocked me down,

rats on the tracks, and garbage

smells in the alleys between buildings,

but I stayed for twenty years, diligent

in my dreams before coming home.

It is slower here, and quiet. Visitors

sleep well in their beds. No Eden,

as that was long ago. No childhood

restored. But a calm meandering

before I die, and I am grateful for it.

And here the old train tracks

are laid with trails we can walk

or bike on through neighborhoods

and woods and fields, beside roads,

for miles and miles, and laid now

like nets over the ocean of town,

catching us like small fish, silver

and pink, vigorous, floppy, or old,

brown, gray, green, or rainbowed.

— Babs