morning, a wall of fog hangs below
the upper stratosphere — nothing annoys me
more than a pen that won’t write — full
cartridge, good treatment, unwilling
to put words on the page, like a bike
with a flat tire when you want to ride
the ink is squeaking out at half the rate
it should be, the nib scratching, words
broken & pale, me shaking the barrel
every few strokes — oh, now
the ink’s flowing, we’ll see how long
that lasts, like Ammons with Garbage, I choose
a rhythm, suddenly there’s pink showing above
the fog bank, the hen that thinks it’s a rooster
crows to be released from the coop, inside the garage
the nineteen bantam chicks will be stirring like
the whisk they resemble, a bang from downstairs
means Ben’s going out to free
that bird, he’ll be grumbling or still asleep
birds & dogs both want release
when once again morning comes as if
their shackled suburban life were worth it
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