And I agree for a moment,
That slow is smooth, but nothing
Satisfies like an entire chicken
Or cooking the rooster outside
The door. You know, the alarm
Every morning.
That plucky thing talks a lot,
Proving that he's worth something
Somewhere, proving that behind
The feathers, we're the same--
Aching for someone to know
We're awake and tossing around.
But does anyone care, really?
One day, we'll find the feathers,
The remnants of a reality that flew
Past the branches like a bike
In the rain and understand, for
A moment, what he called out
Each morning--what it means
To really smell the sun up close.
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