It can’t be TOO hard- being a duck that is.
My stomach growled watching a tot feeding a duck in the castle garden,
then my famished gears started turning.
Right.  That’d be nice- I could go for some bread and a swim.
Ducks don’t even have to work for food- not these ducks
-they get fed.
I have to shop for bread,
and that’s not the half of it.
First I have to get to the bread,
which means risking it in my tired van
or sitting on a bus with a perfect smelly stranger
or pushing my luck crossing a bustling street.
And then, if I’m not way-laid…BREAD!
But I can’t just stuff it down my gullet,
and sure as day nobody’s gonna feed it to me.
The worst that can happen to a duck
eating bread
is getting its head wet…or choking on fruitcake.
Just when I was feeling particularly underprivileged
on the food chain,
I thought of my great grandfather
and his wooden decoy duck bobs
still sitting on my hearth back in Indiana,
and I thought of the dogs he used to chase the felled birds
and I thought of the bullets and the sharp October air, and the teeth,
and I felt silly.

Consider the coffee cup in the bitter early morning
clutched by the weary, in the hands of the sleepwalker.
A Styrofoam chimney that warms bodies to the bones.
Like a silo of potential energy that awakens and inspires.

A companion of the cigarette soft pack, as long as both are full
When empty, a ruffian of a house abandoned
or a vacant playground, a soul void of vivacity.

Sleepy fingers trace the serpentine trail of steam
escaping via vent  in the lid; gateway to wakefulness
Perched in a nest of hands guarding the sanctuary for the alert
This storehouse of caffeine must be rationed.

It’s contents dark, rich, bold, spilling
scolding and fierce and alive.
Consider the coffee cup a comrade, a loyalist
Companion of the diligent, the learning, the weary.

I didn’t storm out
but there was thunder in my head.
I bought a pack of cigarettes,
that usually helps.
usually.
That’s why I started walking
to shoot straight
with these hungry pigeons.
There was this crinkly man
sitting against a Walgreens
who asked me for change,
said he hadn’t eaten in two days
so I shelled out a knuckle of quarters,
and gave him a fresh Turkish smoke.
I even lit it for him.
And as I was leaning over him,
tenderly holding the flame
to his ****-out-of-luck lips,
that’s when it hit me-
that’s when cliché materialized-
misery loves company.

There's a demon there
                     trick'lin down,
                                 trippin' me
                                         and grippin' down.


Think he's under the stairs, now
                             hidin' down there,
                                               spitin' me,
                                                    and bitin' down, there.


So I just sit up top,
        tearin' my hair out,
                 he's scarin' me down there,
                      I can feel him starin' me down.


Bet he won't just up and go away,
                            guess I've plumb forgot how to pray,
                                              plus we far from heaven here,
                                                                         So...
                                                             ...I bet he stay.

I'm shakin' hands with the trees,
High-fiving their leaves,
leaving both of us silly and genuinely pleased.
and by 'both' I mean ten.
We were wrestling zen-
Buddha pinned, nearly sinned
till he slacked, touched my back, bought a drink for my friend-
I'm remembering now what I couldn't then.