To some it’s dumb to write a poem, no doubt,
For ducks or any other beast of fluff.
But when I pause to really work it out,
I think that poems are writ ’bout lesser stuff.
’Cuz Petey is no ordinary bird
That lives to nest and squawk, or flap and preen.
He suffers through so much without a word,
With feathers calm and countenance serene.
Our daughter’s held him tight since she was born,
And he has stayed with her through thick and thin:
Hot sleepless nights and times when she’s forlorn;
On sick days ending in the laundry bin.
I dread the day when you are lost, or torn,
She’ll have you ’til she’s old and you are worn.