there are ducks
frozen in a pond
by a fountain’s
spout; an ice sculpture made
out of their death:
male mallard and female
brown sitting in the snow
necks craned
below the Spokane
Arena, towards the horse
drawn carriage
trekking the wet
streets, bells
ringing off them as I
moan, smoking in view
of a parking ticket
on my borrowed
truck, I think
of an Atlantic
woman’s pristine
face, smashed in by a rich
white man 3 days
before Christmas