Craig Awmiller

People pass his house,
lower their heads, and
whisper: he was dead, once.
Imagine! He was dead, once, and now he is alive,
counting dirty chickens,
rubbing his eyes with his fists,
leaning back in a chair in the afternoon sun.
He should not be so content.
Imagine! Someone once dead is now alive and
now he just counts loud chickens,
rubs his eyes with smudged fists,
and leans back in a chair into the shade,
avoiding the sun.