Catching the Clock
Twenty-two hours passed since the cock crowed out an alarm.
We squint and wonder what happened to the night?
Stolen not by sun, but by this bird that dares it to rise.
And rise it does, every morning
attached to the great Chrysler headed north to wake us
the great loafers of existence.
Still we come to greet you,
mighty sun that falls over the mountain.
Tell us why you left her once again,
she who styles herself in your image
with beauty and sex?
Still the cock waits to crow
and when he does, damn it
sounds like a motherfucker.
I prepare vegetables for stew
you prepare the chopping block and candle.
Quick! Catch that fowl that steals our night,
with a twisted neck, pluck, and steam.
Go pick some plantains
while I fire up the stove
and we too shall sleep again
while tough muscles simmer in the pot.