Chicken-neck

His head held high

The strutting bird

Surveyed the field

He did nothing else.

To save his eyes

He did not gaze

At the mid-day sun,

As always, the hen

Would wait for him;

He did not need

A vast vocabulary

To convince them

Or himself about the next

Sunrise and fanfare,

He could never be a poet

To cry hoarse about pain

Present and future.

As he bowed low

Over the pond

To admire his large comb

A hand lifted him

By the neck,

He did not feel anything afterwards.