Number 8

This is a gala day for The Conning Tower. Today we publish our first serious poem, and are doing it with our serious faces on. Now, serious up and put your hands together for:

ONE HEN

Ten years ago we bought twelve little chicks-
four turned out to be roosters
and finding homes for them
was no easy trick
until we met a woman who had moved out from the city
and had heard that having roosters would keep the
rattlesnakes away.

So we had eight hens- Barred Rocks and Araucanas-
the eggs were aqua-blue and brown and beautiful
the hens flocked and made great sounds and things were good

Time passes and animals die and chickens don't live that long…
except these last two.
Through years seven, eight and nine, only two old hens remained.
One always in front, with fuller feathers, and one behind-
Getting second-best on the food that was put out
and being pecked away- get back, stay back.

Last night I found her dead
with a layer of dirt kicked over her.
No, not the one behind, but the one in front,
and now I worry and wonder how the other
old hen will go on alone.
The nights are getting cold again
there doesn't seem much point- she lays one egg a month.
So I clucked to her as best I could and fed her well
and she ate first
and seemed to be alright.

--Mark Trail


And now for the usual dreck:

I HEARD VOICES BUT THERE’S NO ONE THERE

Your door is ajar.
Your jar is a key.
Your key is a house.
Your house isn’t free.
Your freedom is missing.
Your misses are found.
Your foundation is slipping.
Your slip’s on the ground.
Your ground isn’t hallowed.
Your hollow’s a creek.
Your creek is a river.
Your river’s a leak.
Your leak is a problem.
Your problem’s a car.
Your car is a voice:
“Your door is ajar.”

--LJC