The Rooster

Rooster Cock-a-doodle-doo




It’s easy to want to kill the neighbor’s rooster

Who crows at the first fleck of light, tilting his red-combed head

Back in delight and letting out his piercing caw, not once but

Over and over and over again

Until morning flowers and darkness becomes a forgotten thing.


It is easy cocooned in my shroud of infinite night, shades drawn,

The room a catacomb of grey, to formulate murderous schemes

I’ll shut you up, I think, my blade gleaming and sharpened against the

jagged edges of imagination.


I’ll slice your throat until vermilion blood – the color of your magnificent comb –

flows as freely as your raucous caws, I think,

rolling over into a dainty clutch of golden light

How did you get in? I wonder as it tickles my cheek good morning


Good morning, the rooster echoes.

Who keeps a rooster in the middle of town, this is no farm,

I grumble, admittedly defiant

The rooster croons greetings to the day with unrepentant glee





it hollers, who knows what today might bring


Such promise –

Nobody likes a Pollyanna, I wanna shout,

envisioning lopping off his head before lifting

my own to the encroaching yellow light.


My cocoon successfully breached, I rise


Cock-a-doodle doo



Good Morning goes his refrain


And, as I wrestle out of bed, my feet

smacking a speckle of sun on the wooden floor, suddenly,

His Majesty, the Red-Combed Maestro ceases

his sublime song.