Old Jack…you know, I haven’t seen him for a year, maybe more.
He used to sit here, on this seat on the bank, every day. He’d sit here and feed the ducks.
Always ducks around his feet, scooping up the bread he’d bring, pooping it out everywhere.
I know some folks got uppity about Jack feeding the ducks, making this stretch of bank messy and busy with flies but he didn’t do any harm, sitting here with his bag of bread, a bottle of his favourite tipple tucked under his arm.
Now all’s left is his bottle.
I miss you, Jack.