Those damned ducks, and we dead poets

I drove by Poet’s Pond the other day,
my well-worn awareness of it
filling in the blanks as it
filtered through my peripheral vision

A couple of power-walking moms
with visors on their heads
and practical white running shoes
wound their way around the path

In the small gazebo, a man with
a long beard and a guitar rested;
and perhaps he’d move on later
perhaps his shoulders would unslump
and he’d sing the blues
but most likely,
he didn’t have anywhere else to go
and his rest was the blues.

And the damn ducks had to cross the road right then,
so they waddled themselves
across the entire stretch of roadway
one-by-one, feathered butts
shaking with each step forward,
to the identical pond on the other side.

As I waited for the inconsiderate shits
to finish their trek,
something caught my eye.

I turned my head and lowered the radio.

There in the little patch of grass at the south end
of the artist wall,
feet nearly touching the mural,
was...

god no

I remembered the moment with such
acute clarity that
the acid in my gut nearly
spilled through my face

It was the day you and I
ran away from the world for an hour
threw an old blanket on the ground
under a laurel oak
and had that moment

reading poetry to each other
the smell of cut grass surrounding us
like a private prairie

You were on your back staring up,
I was on my side
tucked in and spooned against you,
while you spoke to me
in verse.
My eyes were closed,
your chest pillowing my
sleepy dreams
as your voice resonated
in two planes.

There was a tenderness
in that dappled moment
that made the walking-moms
smile wistfully in disapproval

A car honked behind me
as the last duck wobbled
up to the sidewalk

just in time
to save me
from seeing you
smile at me again,

I turned up the radio
and ignored the rear-view mirror
so that I wouldn’t catch the glimpse
of us making out like lazy teenagers
the sound of passing traffic
our romantic interlude.

Now I take a different way
because I can’t stand the sweet reflection
of lovers reading dead guys,
as the shade of an oak paints
them into the scenery;

and I can’t shake the feeling
that one day I’ll pass the park,
cuss the damn ducks
and see a set of feet
twined on an old blanket,
his hand shading her forehead
from the glare of the sun
as she props her chin on his chest
and reads

from us.