To the End

Ducks are judgy little bobbers,

blasé and perfectly buoyant.


You, yeah you, looking at me.

Can’t float? Too bad.


Gulls and their card-shark eyes,

they scan for a wiggle of striped bass.

The impression is they’re slumming-it

in such tight-packed down.


Competition is the old-timers

casting off from the pier, tuning into

ballgames and radio static,

looking out for each other.

Keeping an eye on avian sneaks.


Behind us the light is second-hand

and explosive.

Wheels barreling down

dare us to cross the highway.


We are blasé as ducks.

We are judgmental and foolish to the end.



What are you looking for?