No Sunday Dad

You're not supposed to feed the ducks;
there are signs throughout the park.
But for a quarter you can feed the fish.

"If you feed them," winked an old man
on the bridge, "the ducks will come."
And they did; from the shore, the air

and paddling fast down stream, honking,
shuffling, shoving and stuffing their beaks
with a feast half-known to trout below.

Rainbow, Brook and Palomino; large
enough to make a three-year-old's eyes
fly open wide. NO FISHING. A duck dives

as a trout, large and slow rises to be pecked
hard in the skull for his efforts. DO NOT FEED
THE DUCKS. But the fish couldn't help it.

You, my son are young enough yet to question
the hierarchy of the stream. "Daddy, why
is he so mean?" A greedy drake chases away
perhaps his own ducklings from the food we scatter.
"Some daddies, it seems, don't care;" I reply.
You reach up and grip my hand, leaning hard against my side.