THE DECOY

For crying out loud,

let’s just call it a duck

instead of a poem,

why don't we.

Let’s just to mix it up a bit.

Whose gonna stop us?

Let’s give it feathers,

carve them with a blunt knife:

a pawnshop purchase.

Let’s paint its head iridescent green.

Let’s make it a Mallard.

Do this with me, please!

Together let’s float our faux bird in a blind,

set our little decoy down among the reeds and mist 
at first light,

so the balding middle-aged men nestled there,

yawning in their puny skiffs,

will hear that sound,

the sound they came to hear -

the silky riffling in the wind -

that will veer and descend toward them,

and make them giddy on the trigger.

Let’s end the poem there.

Nobody needs to get hurt.

Nothing need fall from the sky.

Next time let's let the poem be a pretzel. 

Let's see what happens then.