In Yaphank the ducks squat
on mud flats by the Great South Bay,
reed and berry bramble gone to
shingled boxes on concrete slabs.

They quack their song to the duck goddess:
a dissonant annoying din that wakes
the dead, the wary commuter, the poet
on the East End who’s buying up the land.

He drives his Cherokee over
to the compound of a painter friend
whose deal with Time-Warner just
fell through. They drown in vodka

and aquavit this recent sorrow
and the sorrows of a hundred minions.
The ducks, ignored, shitting in mud,
continue to drone their mantra