by Spencer Keene
Another egg slips from you
And you feel half-an-omelette
Lighter—brighter now under
The barn’s single glowing eye
That blinks open with the dusk.
You pluck three chin feathers
And watch them curl down to
Pockets of stale hay like wings
Fluttering to Earth in search
Of Farmer’s empty pillowcase.
Sometimes you wonder about
Mother—her plush breast and
Auburn bloom of plumage
Always the envy of the ladies
Always the rooster’s prize.
Your chick pips to life from
Under the press of your bosom
Whines for its raw-grain meal
And a bit of your attention—
Both are provided lovingly.
Spencer Keene (he/him) is a lawyer and writer from Vancouver, BC. His poetry and short fiction have been featured in a variety of print and digital publications, including SAD Magazine, Sea to Sky Review, Dog Throat Journal, and MacQueen’s Quinterly. Find more of Spencer’s work at www.spencerkeene.ca.