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,
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.
