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Children of Our Murdered Chickens
The air still turns
in the June of
my tumbling.
A hard fall,
abrupt as my
crumbled bones.
My knee shattered
beyond the discovery
I was not dead.
Above me the
roof looked down.
Broken, my head
twisted in the
wet sand and
dirt she calls
her flower bed.
Long rides and
surgeries await
me. Feet clear
of the clutch
for the unknown
road ahead.
After Studying Her Buckingham Clock
Half as much
rust on the old
Chevrolet. And
a finger to boot
if you lube it.
A sign behind
the shadows
looking back.
Cold steel
with raised lettering.
A perfect word
said Duby.
And more
metal, cluttering
the rack built
in the basement.
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