I wonder sometimes about plain poems. You know, the ones that don't make extravagant gestures, or state grand themes. I find myself writing them now and again and being pleased by them. Perhaps only because they recall a moment in my life. This one particular moment happened last fall. Perhaps guilt? Perhaps to remind myself to bring the stale bread next time?
Four White Geese: Black duck
Morning, and the light off the park pond
blinding as I sit busy with daily worry,
papers, checks, and bills.
They swim across the ripples
to peer at me. Without a sound
they careen their long necks,
and paddle expectantly beside the shore
where I sit. When they finally give up
the implied hope of bread
I feel the breach of contract
as they drift, still looking back,
for some proffered sign
of kindness or kinship.