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Blue Duck
Your sleeve waves goodbye while your hand curls a finger. Your lips Bronx-cheer me, so I duck. Ah-ha, you miss! Although we both miss fakes when our eyes are closed. If I chase the secret mouse of anger that runs away from the corner of my eye, crawls down my neck, drops off my knee, and spies at you from my shoe, where will you hide from it? In our basement where rats fear to drink the water? Should we climb to the roof so we can stand close to ducks? I duck quick when I’m thirsty enough to beg. A beg, a scream, and a cry, are all prayers to the shy. The music I stuff in my ears only slows my blue duck for one song at a time. I still hope to hear blues bursting from your lungs, but you are so deadly quiet I don’t have to duck.
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