Lord love a duck! As well as why-not entertain
a she-mallard’s own scurrilous antics as ill-reputed
as mine, her beady-eyed & feather-
headed immodesties & her since-when nobody
listens not even another poultry. You could please
flip us a couple of yesteryears’ raggedy toast crusts.
I’ll preen my own rear wag,
showing myself off shabby in plain
oversight & scuffling such scrappy disinformations & tattles
as everywhere drop along behind cripple
winter now so mildly driven-off however
spittling & muttering yesterday.
This, that: my current trumpsed-up undeniably not
among the notions I held in mind high-&-mightily
once-upon-time, none amounting to much, but today,
addled yet, I keep keen & nimble enough
to tip up & dabble, muckster still of any pond’s black heart
beneath the superficial clouds swaggering upside-down like luck.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 23, Issue 2.
See all items about Martha Zweig