the ducks glide 

in the direction of 

The Mushroom House. There’s a 

Man living there who 

picks them up by their bellies 

and kisses ‘em as they wander by. 

The Man visits a fish hatchery

on days he thinks of his children 

in the city, watching 

speckled brown trout mingle through

the bustling cement alleyways 

as if they have 

somewhere to go. The Man there 

strolls the farmers market on Sundays and 

picks Braeburn apples for the 

backyard deer

and the deer don’t thank him for it.