and i listen to the chickens
with an ass-shaped champagne glass
swirling, choking, cracking knuckles
pondering the ashes of the dead

to the roosters, i am a crap bucket
and i am mad as hell about that
almost, at times, as if there is nothing
one could live for but for that

fire chuckles at the baked tatoes
just two crapped houses away
my stomach for my loneliness
hungry, full, and a waste

a slow chicken at my feet is resting
with small tender little breasts
touching my hairy shin softly
pondering the ashes of the dead

and today it's love or dinner
that has dragged itself to me
with the fire sky and tatoes
i will eat it tenderly