Bonnie Drake

Bonnie Drake

Bonnie sits near to the fens; swathes

of cattails, swatches of verdigris, reeds

press upward to fog. My work twists

like the Sagrada Familia. "In the future,

noone will know how lofty my flights, 

how birdlike my swishes, how my brush

melts ink into vellum." Ducks won't perch,

she thinks as she sketches for her words.

Ducklings chase a boy down the footpath.

He searches in his pockets for grain.

She hands him some biscuit bits,

sunflower seeds, then draws the boy

feeding ducks and writes about herself,

underneath: "When the scribe casts verbs

at this umber bird, she voids that slant,

how birdiness can adulterate her script."

The ducks back away like flappers seeking

an empty dance card, and a drake waddles

up to the boy. He might nab a finger. 

The drake only wants a pet. Over them,

a drizzle flushes pepper packets, butts,

toothpicks, matchbooks to the esplanade.

The boy glances over and snags a coin

from the drift. She packs her bag and board

and tosses leftovers to the ducks who quack 

first then tackle crumbs. The boy follows 

her for awhile then runs back to the drake

and collects him under his wings.

[narrative poem]