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Chicken-Neck

Rating: 5.0
His head held high
The strutting bird
Surveyed the field
He did nothing else.
To save his eyes
He did not gaze
At the mid-day sun,
As always, the hen
Would wait for him;
He did not need
A vast vocabulary
To convince them
Or himself about the next
Sunrise and fanfare,
He could never be a poet
To cry hoarse about pain
Present and future.
As he bowed low
Over the pond
To admire his large comb
A hand lifted him
By the neck,
He did not feel anything afterwards.
Wednesday, February 24, 2021
Topic(s) of this poem: point of view
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4/20/2021 6:02:51 AM # 1.0.0.560