When Things Could Be Better
Perched on the fence post, he preens
each morning, announcing the sun
with an old voice he owns
like the hens pecking in the hard dirt,
his kingdom the span of our two acres,
this junk yard of Grandpa’s used car parts
and the patch of wilted vegetables
Grandma clings to.
He haunts my daily chore, lunges
when I head to the hen house,
where the ladies nestle, squawk
at the swift swipe of my nervous fingers
for the oblong, lifeless orbs that mean
money for my mother’s quilting thread.
These days of sweeping dirt floors,
kneading sourdough, churning butter,
our only breaks the quiet moments
darning clothes threadbare and long past
normal, I long to be clucking,
the lone master of my universe,
a land full of potential, absolute control,
the only thing I know.
April 18, 2013