2.

This is about the one lonely voice,
singing a plaintive song,

near the pond in the woods. That pond—
apart from the river—is shrinking and dying,

due to a lack of rain. White geese glide
like dancers on the flowing, nearby river,

like swans on a silver pond
with only the goslings making a splash.

The ducks act like vulgar cousins:
Poor, like ours.  And ugly.

The ones whose house remains unpainted—
inside and out, year after year—

the ones with pink flamingos on their lawns
made of dirt, the ones who sing gospel or blues,

pluck a banjo, smoke unfiltered
cigarettes, drink cheap whiskey

deep in the night deep in the woods,
where skinny kids left clothes on bushes

and jumped—naked—
into that slime of receding pond-water.

first published in The Centrifugal Eye