The Duck Drowned


I know it was the year of 1984 and that he smelt of a thrift store on a Sunday Morning.

He bought a record before he died, it was Otis. His mother loves Otis.

The only voice in his rummaged room was his own.

I think they called him Duckie.

He wanted her voice but she kept saying her phone was broken.

He wanted the rogue red-head with crafty clothes

She preferred the smell of money rather than old clothes

He scribbled on a wrinkled paper,

“The Duckman has left the building.”

With heart broken eyes,

he scratched an itch with a sharp piece of a record.

The news spread faster than old spice cologne

on a claustrophobic strut through

the hallways.


This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged .

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