John Logan - 1923-1987
Three moves in sixth months and I remain the same. Two homes made two friends. The third leaves me with myself again. (We hardly speak.) Here I am with tame ducks and my neighbors' boats, only this electric heat against the April damp. I have a friend named Frank— the only one who ever dares to call and ask me, "How's your soul?" I hadn't thought about it for a while, and was ashamed to say I didn't know. I have no priest for now. Who will forgive me then. Will you Tame birds and my neighbors' boats. The ducks honk about the floats . . . They walk dead drunk onto the land and grounds, iridescent blue and black and green and brown. They live on swill our aged houseboats spill. But still they are beautiful. Look! The duck with its unlikely beak has stopped to pick and pull at the potted daffodil. Then again they sway home to dream bright gardens of fish in the early night. Oh these ducks are all right. They will survive. But I am sorry I do not often see them climb. Poor sons-a-bitching ducks. You're all fucked up. What do you do that for? Why don't you hover near the sun anymore? Afraid you'll melt? These foolish ducks lack a sense of guilt, and so all their multi-thousand-mile range is too short for the hope of change.