the duck

the sky was
a little smokier
as it is every year
in late November.
most
had left in October
because the creek
and the wind were
too cold.

I had produced nothing
that winter;
most likely still
trying to find myself.
not because I felt out
of place in my skin, more
so I hadn’t found anyone else
with skin for a smooth
enough smelt.

without my thrashing
about and carrying on,
the house was mostly silent,
as it was on that day.
after having starved with
little money and no success,
the hunt came out in me
so I got up to find my pants—

in a flare of down fatigue,
I crashed.

he came out of nowhere,
knocking over my bamboo vase—
I was really too lucky
and several times I slapped
my face;
the thought was that
I might have eaten that day
but by the slow rise
and fall I saw he was
obviously breathing.
so I brought him in;
I had been alone a long
long while
and had been hungry
even longer.

his scent stayed with me;
I had never been close enough
to one to know what they ate
and how it made them smell.

but he was pleasant and cleaned
himself;
slow, unconcerned, and aloof:
so much lower than I was used to.

(I never even began to count
the months he stayed)
we developed a habit of poker
on alternating weeknights;
sometimes weekend bars;
purplegrass hazes every night.
I taught him how to quack only
at the pretty girls
and make the unfortunate lookers
gawk.

those were cold nights—
falling in and out with others,
names blurred overlap;
dust from once-present connections.
we were good for each other,
even without any food.

I am so grateful to have had
such stability in one friend
for as long as I did;
if only to have made it
through the winter.

life felt too tired that day and
I knew this—
condemning myself willingly
in hopes of a simple existence
maybe
something more palatable:

simply,
we were both alone and
would have taken anything in
the world to kill It.

webbed feet—
intent-of-ambiguous-color—
you were an invaluable friend
and in the coldest and
loneliest of nights, delicious
aside a carafe of pinot noir.