Pond, Central Park

Fluffy punk ducks

strutting across the new grass.

They don’t have time for sparrows,

shrugging at the geese,

who don’t mess with the mallards;

They have a reputation with the ladies,

will rip that bread right out of your boy’s hands-

And they don’t sit for no one.

You find the ordinary in the extraordinary,

sitting like a sort of Buddha on a lumpy couch, harvesting ugliness

while pretending you are fascinating. I haven’t traveled much,

but I hear there are far-off lands where the people would sigh in fascination

at your kind. Well, here you are as exotic as a French fry.

To be fair, I’ve always had an unhealthy thing for French fries.

But you – you’re not even a McDonald’s guilty pleasure.

You’re a nameless Midtown deli’s flaccid excuse, and I’m not even hungry.

This Tiara

I am the queen of the crosstown bus
I wear this tiara to distinguish myself from the common commuter
My head held high, the Swarovski crystals glisten as they reflect off the MTA's windows.
Curtsy to my quirkiness!  This is my kingdom.
Yesterday my carriage pulled away before I could board.
My tiara went askew as I gave chase.
This mutiny did not go unnoticed.
One will write a scathing email of complaint, or a royal Yelp!