The Ducks

What we have failed to invent

Is an umbrella to keep aimless ones

Dry in the spiritual storm.

Where is the compassion,

In the lonely one in the chair,

Surrounded by clamoring ducks

Who wiggle and drift

Towards the muddy pond?

Where is the turning point

Where we say no more

And shut the machine down?

No, ducks wait to die

Preening and admiring their web feet,

Their feathers the real prize

And their necks forgotten.

They drown naked in the cruel rain,

Without an umbrella

That we failed to provide.


© 2017 Valerie Hathaway



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