he had a rooster in his throat.
This sick rooster felt a suffocating
humidity around his neck.
The sun lifted its baton and made that tense
fake-smiled face orchestras know to say, like we practiced.
The rooster fumbled with me just minutes
to downbeat, I didn't feel right in his hands.
I couldn't open my eyes to see his anxious fingers
much less the batons torpedoing through the blinds.
He had pulled me from the case an hour before,
alarmed at how frog I looked.
An hour of confused persuasion is hardly enough
to change me back into a bird.
Panicked, the rooster recalled a fairy tale he'd heard,
or been in once, and kissed me, but his beak tore
a day-sized hole in my ribbit so I couldn't even explain
what to tell the conductor. His ruffled feathers let any good
excuse spill out onto the floor, but after the sun had glared
a few minutes, he smiled warm and said,
take the day off,
today will go on without you, and we will try again tomorrow.
LOVE this
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