Going To See The Chickens (Niort, France) Poem by Jean Bernard Parr

My stroke was all wrong
he said,
I watched him plough
lazy ocean swells
now his arm dwells
on the rail, afraid
of footstep fail.

He patched this bit of wall
careful with the trowel
mixed just enough
to do the job
didn't waste none
letting it fall.
His proper tools
on a high shelf,
the toolfitters bag
serial numbered, oiled
leather so stiff
you'd think it was tin.

His gaze anchors here;
mending,
something you do
to things outside of you.
We are going to see
Madame Hubots'chickens,
the postman stops
on his chick-yellow bike
he knows him well-
the call from a ladder
get a second coat on
before big raindrops
then there's a new Peugot
to admire, news
of a baby
several postmen ago...

Now we don't talk
two deep sea divers
in slow motion
just another gear you're in
I'm tempted to tell him
but that's not fair
he knows
about wear and tear

Look!
Madame Hubots' chickens
are covered in rust
we have to count them
Fifteen
always fifteen,
and although
fascists and communists
come and go
there will always be chickens
something you won't find
in any book.