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
Wheels barreling down
dare us to cross the highway.
We are blasé as ducks.
We are judgmental and foolish to the end.