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.