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.

 

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