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