65th and Telegraph
My friend Mary Claire
not the one with gout
the one with cancer
raised chickens in Oakland.
She built a beautiful—what do they call it—
a coop (a fine Cape Cod, $39 plans)
from recovered wood. She had some
good cedar, sassafras, ash
from her brother's little league bat.
The roosts were perfectly leveled
when they arrived: Alpha Alice,
Petite Coquette, Becky and Beckett.
At dusk they'd bicker and fuss
until she opened the coop,
then up the ramp they'd go
Once on the roost, they were set
for the night, hard-wired
to clutch the bar until dawn.
The guy who stole them
must have had a time that night
ungripping their feet.
He gave up on Alice.
She probably broke some skin.
By the time M. C. made it
into the yard, he was already
down Telly.
"Even from the back,"
she was crying,
"you could tell how
fucking hungry he was."