The Thing w/Feathers

The Thing w/Feathers

A duckling’s ridged foot encased

in brass, precise imprint cemented

in a lonely doorway, waiting

to be noticed—a hint of hope

in some strange language meant

for the downcast, down-looking,

the late and lonely walkers

of this empty street. Glancing around

they risk, as I did, a tremulous quack

or two, for why not? For what’ve we got

to lose? And find it ruffles something

more than long-forgotten feathers.

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