There is a prepubescent rooster
working hard beneath my window
to find the pure iambic pride
of his ironhearted crow.
Every day at eight a.m.,
and then again at ten,
I hear his lame-limp rhythms—
"Shaky, at best!" the reviews
would say. But who reviews
things born of homespun orchards?
The only audience: apples,
and even the attention
of cultivated fruit
sways in the instance
of October wind.
Still, he forges on, my
self-sequestered chum—
"This is no fly-by-night endeavor!"
his pretend-agent defends
against The Invisiblecritics.
And as the crackle of his doodle
grates against his cock-a-doo,
I shift, un-numb my leg
and lift my pen . . . again . . .
at the prospect of unearthing
this poem.