by Deron Eckert

A rubber duck floats down the river
along with baby clothes and toys,
a left behind walker since there is no
walking on water, and God knows what else
since you can’t bear to see people’s lives
rushed away in the flash of a flood
that you’ll never understand if you haven’t
lived though one or did what you could
to help clean brown water off every surface
to ensure no one died from something
you would’ve thought went away
in biblical times with the locusts and frogs
you realize still exist to this day, as if
God never stopped to lift a finger
he must keep on a red button labeled
PUNISH.

Deron Eckert is a poet and writer who lives in Lexington, Kentucky. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Atlanta Review, Blue Mountain Review, Appalachian Journal, Rattle, Stanchion, Beaver Magazine, The Fourth River, and elsewhere. He can be found on Instagram at deroneckert.