It’s a bitch-crank hope,
this interval between
dropping and chopping.
Save it for the center,
its melting or exploding.
We crow, listening to
music. Dancing with a
big guy who’s left of
center. Who’s left?
Our chops, I suppose.
Whetted at midnight,
but drying in recompense.
Give a guy some butter,
will ya? Says the red hen.
Says the dead red hen.
