O Little Rooster, O Little Cock

O little rooster,

O little cock,

your broken song makes me weep.

How forlorn or gravely ill you must be.

A mob of black doves wrecks my skull,

and an earthquake fractures my chest.

"He was a lousy lover,"

she says,

"He always made me cry.

He loved Bob Dylan,

the Counting Crows,

the Beats,

Cesar Vallejo,

writing poetry,

and he loved roosters.

I don't get it.

We had nothing in common.

That piece of shit.

Why did I marry him?"

Her lover draws near.

His stomach presses against

the curve of her back.

"We should never have had kids,"

she laments.

"He might have been a missionary

somewhere in South America

or a football coach in Texas

or some poor, penniless writer

living in the foothills of New Mexico;

and I might be living in Kentucky

a Baptist minister's wife

or living in a shack in Durango

a devout Catholic

or living in Pakistan

on a holy journey to Mecca.

What an ass he was."

Her lover sighs

lost in dreams

of bhang fields

and young virgin girls.

The moon pushes against the windowpane,

and its' sovereign light undresses her.

She pulls the covers around her shoulders.

"He was a lousy lover,"

she says.

"We had nothing in common.

He loved Bob Dylan,

the Counting Crows,

the Beats,

Cesar Vallejo,

writing poetry,

and he loved roosters.

He always made me cry.

That piece of shit."

A mob of black doves wrecks her skull,

and an earthquake fractures her chest.

Outside, the dog barks,

and there's the clang of cowbells.

The night slowly withdraws,

and the earth begins to chirp.

In the yard, the rooster crows.

"Fucking little cock," she cries.
"We had nothing in common.

Why did I marry him.