It is the season of shaggy hair
and beards Mike stands like a cornstalk
in the shadow hands in pockets
head cocked the conqueror
made it out past the west coast
I am often bored on my island
But am finding things to do
crossed out on the back of the postcard
He looks like a rooster under the sorrow song
of his idol the setting sun climbs the wall
From Iowa later that year Mike wrote:
After walking through seven or eight large pens
I chose a cage which had 10 brown hens
and a white rooster. I didn't particularly want the rooster
but they were 2 bucks a piece so I decided to go for it.
A winter's travel away from that day
he's small against the mural Woody's eyes
are downcast and cool
the wrinkles in his denim shirt
more lasting than Mike's huffed up pose
I got the most bunk chickens an Iowan could ask for
Within one week three had died
and I buried them in the plum grove
but a grave robber came under cover of darkness
dug up the chicken carcasses and carried them away
leaving only a blasphemous hole and some raccoon poop
Woody's hands as large as Mike's torso
grip the neck of the guitar
and finger the strings
projecting song off the silent cement
where he is painted
the next day found feathers all over the garden
the two remaining chickens cowering in the greenhouse
something had jumped a fence four and a half feet tall
and scared out the chickens without disturbing fence or coop
At his heels the confident voice
that once whined of lost love
Ahead of him plump garlic bulbs
of marriage and unemployment
they are great swimmers so crossing a river
to get some chickens would be no problem
and only a cougar would be big enough
to kill and eat six in one fell swoop
The future a cougar the past a raccoon
Here, in an old photo, the sun is always setting
Mike's face a dancing flame behind wild hair and dark glasses
Woody keeps strumming a burnished ballad
Our one remaining chicken is very spry
and we let him run all over the yard.
I am prepared to give him away as a stewing hen.
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