On the far side

of the lake,

they’re calculating

how to shake me

from my bench

so I’ll leave

my lunch behind.

 

Despicable – these

ducks who seem

innocent enough,

yet

who will trouble waterways

to ruffle my peace

with unrelenting eyes.

 

I admit

every staring thing

unhinges me:

the maple peering

into our living room,

the cat spying

on the patio,

the kid pounding drums

on his steering wheel

as I stroll within

the crosswalk lines.

Nothing, it seems,

respects

the grace of privacy.

Despite

psychologists’ protests,

this phobia is real –

as real as

Thinking makes it so.

 

Tomorrow

I’ll tackle

exposure therapy

and face off

each anatidae

in town.

 

 

For now,

my deep breaths

summon up a prayer

that dabblers, divers,

and buffleheads

will close their eyes

once they realize

all I have

is hummus

spread edge-to-edge

on organic celery.

 

* The irrational fear of being stared at by a duck