Where he’d come from and how
through several sets of manned doors
drawing no one’s attention
was something that later generated
much delight
and several high level inquiries.
The vulnerable nape of neck
guileless skull curvature
slicked down cow-lick
and waddle with not a hint of swagger.
Quietly seated in the mezzanine gallery
a young duck, not quite duckling
but not very much past
despite the mature freckles.
Okay, allowable the first time but day
after day?
Not a quack.
No droppings.
Not even a feather.
Firmly holding his ground
a good minute before allowing himself
to be ushered out by two security guards
only to reappear the next day
before the Bonnard.
Poem
Homage
Gita Mammen