All the ducklings
have disappeared. The adults
quack and skirt the edge of the pond.

Pressure grows in my throat
and chest. You are not the same

you who leaves
his guitar propped against a porch
rail. Borrowed? A song

for another night. A feral cat
or urban coyote. So many torn up streets

and ripped out bridges have me walking
in circles. These scratches
on my leg will heal.