Three moves in sixth months and I remain <br />the same. <br />Two homes made two friends. <br />The third leaves me with myself again. <br />(We hardly speak.) <br />Here I am with tame ducks <br />and my neighbors' boats, <br />only this electric heat <br />against the April damp. <br />I have a friend named Frank-- <br />the only one who ever dares to call <br />and ask me, "How's your soul?" <br />I hadn't thought about it for a while, <br />and was ashamed to say I didn't know. <br />I have no priest for now. <br />Who <br />will forgive me then. Will you <br />Tame birds and my neighbors' boats. <br />The ducks honk about the floats . . . <br />They walk dead drunk onto the land and grounds, <br />iridescent blue and black and green and brown. <br />They live on swill <br />our aged houseboats spill. <br />But still they are beautiful. <br />Look! The duck with its unlikely beak <br />has stopped to pick <br />and pull <br />at the potted daffodil. <br />Then again they sway home <br />to dream <br />bright gardens of fish in the early night. <br />Oh these ducks are all right. <br />They will survive. <br />But I am sorry I do not often see them climb. <br />Poor sons-a-bitching ducks. <br />You're all fucked up. <br />What do you do that for? <br />Why don't you hover near the sun anymore? <br />Afraid you'll melt? <br />These foolish ducks lack a sense of guilt, <br />and so all their multi-thousand-mile range <br />is too short for the hope of change.<br /><br />John Logan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/three-moves/
