Poultry Chronical

My chicken has pointy ears
like a forest. He's long-thighed,

a non-sitter. That's him
in the low meadow then back again

at the porch door as if he's come
from a great distance and I have made tea.

He remains slightly tilted
and his keel low set.

Each night of their own accord
the stars drop down,

the coast drifts away and my chicken
drifts like a boat in a bowl.

In the dust he scrawls a whole cast
of houses and llamas,

a parade of broken soldiers,
a love letter to a strand

of women amidst streetcars.
It's the end of summer

and my chicken is on a boulevard
already filling with waiters.

He puts his ear to the ground,
his eyes close,

his mind like a wind instrument.
In it, there is time for everything.

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Copyright © 2011 Michael Teig All rights reserved
from Crazyhorse
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission