Life is fraying a bit at the seams
not totally coming apart
like the sink after love unrequited
has severed a vital lifeline.
It’s not, however, the only line
that enables a hang and a sway
on life’s so merry round about
turning, turning, and turning again.
So we hang and we sway, turn in the day,
and give over our truth to the night
hoping to there see a ray of light
that encourages forward movement.
But then it is day, too soon, too soon,
and we’re hanging and swaying again
and the chicken next door is silent
because it knew when to walk away.
How brave is that chicken homeless now
to not hang and sway, turn in the day,
but simply to do a midnight flit
and not care about truth and light.
But we are who we are, have always been,
and I’m not a chicken, you see?