That the Prospect Park ducks return
is a wonder.
Once, in a botched attempt
at a romantic pavilion sitting
a spring bringing kissing session
derailed by the smell of rotting
drops of alcohol is molding bottles—
parties to which I would never be privy
(sheltered by roves—
the blessing of work hours)
a duck ambled by
missing its beak.

How terribly disturbing
its bared tongue
its homeless home
its vulnerability
against our protection.

* The eye color of the teal duck.