Ducks Misery
Ducks Misery was what the hunters called
the bottomland of the Pecatonica River,
which purled through my boyhood.
In writing about it I have never known
Where to place the apostrophe,
before the ‘s or after the s’.
Was it the misery of one duck,
or the misery of all duckkind?
If the hunters had written it down
they would have had to decide
something as significant as whether
misery is particular
to each individual being
or something held in common.
If anyone had to decide such a thing,
I would rather it be a hunter
than a politician or theologian.
But they never had occasion to write it down.
In calling it Ducks Misery,
they were just honoring the man who,
in a boat one rainy evening, said,
to his friend and his soft-mouthed lab,
“Miserable place to be a duck.”