5 AM

People want four things. The first three
are easy: to love, to know, to be.
The fourth is for the rooster atop
the bush outside my window to stop
its lonely crowing. For sleep's sake,
even the cat thinks what will it take
to figure his pretty hen is dead.
Shredded feathers and fluff were spread
across the yard outside the back door
like a shuttlecock factory floor.
From darkness, he calls her nonetheless,
till the stars have faded in the west.
Some morning soon I might take him
by the old comb and beak and shake him,
look him in the eye and say, She won't
be back, not now, not noon, so don't,
just don't. But then, I allow the blame
of betrayal is better than the shame
of silence. I get up, crow along,
singing some forlorn morning song
while poaching eggs. Silence comes
with eating. I throw the few toast crumbs
of what's left over into the back yard
along with last night's corn and Swiss chard,
and who comes barreling over to look
but this dumb bird who daily crooks
his neck to crow when he sees the sun
like a distant yolk not quite a son,
not quite a god, when he lifts his praise
to mystery and emptiness.

John Poch

Dolls
Orchises Press