Not much older than four
he speaks with the voice of a duck
and walks like an odd one
No doubt what he’s got he gets
from his half deaf grandmother
seated in the shade over the picnic bench
in a park by the ocean,
her words so loud and tough
they turn heads
“Eat your goddamned mushrooms, Arly
Picked ’em myself”
“No fuckin’ way, Gramma
They taste like mud”
“Arly, lordy be,” she says to herself,
sifts through leaves of lettuce
on a thrift store plate with an old fork,
looks up into the waving canopy,
then down to see how Arly
jumps high off his seat,
duck walks across the grass
to watch other kids
fight over swing sets,
how firmly he stands
duck footed
under looming eucalyptus trees,
how far he stands to go