All through lunch Peter only managed three dollars
for Jesus squinting from his rubber lungs--poor guy can't breathe--
and the wash of the machine in the workshed where we managed to
find the sandwich he wanted was outdone only by his wallet and his Roth IRA
Peter doubted he could swing a reuben for saving
Manny's life earlier in the day, while the buck sixty five crawled
through some portico on a steamtrain bound to those rubber plants and steelmills in Birmingham and West VA, where it would eventually melt down into a pin to keep a severed arm attached, gory, flappping like a loose winged pheasant or bookends of sandwich bread.
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