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?
