The Rooster
the rooster died this morning
cut off mid-crow
glossy feathers, bright eyes
cocky barnyard strut
gone
with a quick twist of the wrist
the rooster died this morning
he was all wrong
wrong gender
wrong time
wrong place
to his credit though
he lived like he was right
up to the very end
Oh, how I would love to live
as if I was right
up to the very end!
Even if the end was coq au vin,
but alas I am of the quiet type,
no waking people up at 3AM
but still I can enjoy the memory of the rooster's struts
while I imagine saying bye
to what has often brought silence to my voice.
Poor rooster, but what a great poem.
Sad, but I'm sure it was necessary.
It's all we can hope for, living right up to the end.