Port Deposit 1965

When I was very small I had a friend
Whom I called Ducky, which was apropos
Because he was. My sister would pretend
That he was just a toy; he wasn’t, though.
To prove to her that Ducky could, too, swim,
I filled the tub and Ducky spun around
In small, concentric circles. Jeering him,
My sister said, “If he’s alive, he’s drowned!”
You see, I used to hold him by the throat
And all his vertebrae were so relaxed
He couldn’t lift his head, so, like a boat
With one oar dipped, his way-making was taxed.
I swore he’d swum; my sister called me liar.
My mommy warmed up Ducky in the dryer.

…Like No One’s Quacking

The ballerina had a duck
With whom she’d pas de deux at night
Behind her boyfriend’s pickup truck
Illuminated by the light,
Reflected in the bumper’s chrome,
From that benighted sign whose sight
Invited strangers to her home.

Trolling Audubon

I’m not awake enough to know
If this is still a dream. If so,
The penguins in that pickup truck
Are drunk; if not, I broke the duck.

What Do You See In The Mirror?

Monopedal water fowl
Shedding wet without a towel
In the rain upon a wall,
Who’s the fairest of them all?

Just The Quacks, Ma’am

Ducks don’t really have to quack;
It’s just alternatives they lack.
They’re unimaginative fowl
No more wise than half an owl
Doomed to squawk that one dumb phrase
Until their soggy End of Days.
Ducks don’t have to quack, but do.
They’re ducks. They’ve no excuse. Do you?

I Know Man

So I sd, start
with a hic-
coughing chick-

en & see
where
it takes you–

the water sur-
rounds us, what
the–

duck it’s a god
damn duck
just hold yr breath

Duck In A Bucket

Duck in a bucket:
It’s better than chicken!
You don’t have to eat it,
Just slip a big stick in
And knock it about
And the echoey quacking
Will drown out the laughter
Your empty life’s lacking.

Secret Duck

Don’t ask. A secret duck won’t tell.
Unmask a secret duck? Like hell!
No quantity of skill or luck
Will compromise a secret duck.

A cage about its head, plus rat?
You’re wasting time with stunts like that.
Enhanced interrogation’s whack.
A secret duck will never quack.

The dog that doesn’t bark is rare.
Though cats have secrets, they don’t care
Enough to keep them. Chickens cluck
Reflexively. Not so, a duck.

A secret duck will not admit
A thing. You’d best get used to it.
In fact, if you’ve a secret, tuck
It deep inside a secret duck.

The Lonely Farmer

“Pick a card and memorize
The rank and suit, then slide it back,”
The farmer says. “I’ll cut. Surprise!
Is this your card?” The duck says, “Quack.”

Afflatus

My fingers twitch and words appear
Upon the little screen thing here
Sometimes my thumbs depress the keys
That magic into words like these
I don’t know what the words will say
It’s often better anyway
For me to put my brain on hold
And wait to watch the verse unfold
If I were Whitman, Frost or Thomas
I don’t think I’d sweat the commas
And the rhymes the way I do
But they all wrote in longhand, too
So maybe it’s the keys that make
It hard to write while I’m awake
Perhaps I need to pluck a duck
Or goose a goose to get unstuck
And dip the quill in liquid ink
To write, but if the verses stink
Despite the old-school plume et encre
I’d have maimed a quack- or honker
In the (ahem) end to show
What you and I already know
From years of high school English classes:
Inspirations drawn from asses
Whether they be yours or birds’
Are frequently no more than turds.
There’s a lesson here, and that is:
Afflatus is not a flatus.