The hens that once clucked
And cackled near the mucky
Pigpen in the next door
Neighbors’ backyard and laid
The fresh eggs my mother fried
For our breakfast to the tune
Of the rooster that craned
Its neck to crow before
Laying each chicken in turn,
And the once ubiquitous
Always sad-faced
Ass that brayed
In the vacant lot just
West of our house
In the torrid afternoon heat,
Its Priapian appendage hanging
Limp as a wet knee-high
From the long since departed
Neighbors’ sagging clothesline, how
Is it they all flew the coop
And I’m still here?
Excellent poem, with vivid details, sounds, rhythms, emotion, all working together. Bravo! Another one of your poems that will last.
ReplyDeleteThis one keeps coming back into mind for me. It is a rich experience, emotional and moving, with such memorable specific details.
ReplyDeleteAye, your discerning poetic eye has once again read this poem so very carefully and I thank you once again for your comments. BTW, while I was writing it, I remembered a poem of yours written quite a few years ago in which you describe the act of writing poetry as something akin to what chickens do when they scratch the ground looking for seeds and the whatnot to eat--do you remember it?
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