What is the meaning of meeting in a predisposed location where ducks chatter and flock together? As I sit patiently on my stool, they come visit me. I do not throw them bread or any such food, but they see their mother in me. Could it be the smell of my week old dirty socks or perhaps my shoes that are nearly 10 years old now? I make sure my shopping cart has no food since it would make me even more hungry than usual. It's nice to have some company, be it ducks.
At first, I thought about someone feeding ducks. Instead, this prose poem ended up being about a hobo chilling and having ducks visit him for a brief moment. I wonder if hobo's actually think this way. I do not recommend becoming a hobo to find out.
I hope you enjoy!