The Complaints of Ducks

The Complaints Of Ducks the city filled in the small pond in the middle of my tiny poem. all the ducks came to my door and complained i am simple i agree in the meekest of language. that they have been unhomed. it is my duty they tell me as a poet to open the door of my small poem and let them swim in my bathtub. i agree it is tough to be unhomed there should be plenty of room in my weensy poem for such a small flock of fluffy ducks. the periods are silent because they must know something. the ducks fill up my bathtub as they quack double sestina to the pond that has been filled by those unfeeling humans! it is hard to work in such cacophony such repetitive quacking repetition words like floating wood float to the surface of my eye-ear in spades. often i type my meager haikus on my typewriter with missing chrome keys: typewriter chrome keys flutter cure clear water within pond flows pure ducks like ink letters rise into line. no says my inward-sparrow: “that is an englyn milwr not a haiku” bless you sparrow i tried again: typewriter keys clatter rises like letters in moonlight ducks swim on round poem. Then the tiny bell vibes as my typewriter comes to the margins and quacking subsides. The ducks come to my study and complain that my typing is quite distracting to their swimming. The periods can only chuckle like crickets.