Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Seventeen Summer 2008 |
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The Dance of Curb Chickens Joseph Olschner For a time, they scattered like cotton popped from a shotgun, running like leaves flung from a tunnel as the rubber and steel rims of a green Packard busted through what had been a quiet pecking space but for the road shoulder roar that would push beating wings and feathers back to the packed dirt yard under ribbons of wet clothes hanging in the sun. For a time, my curbed visit is a quiet one, rolling into the sidewalk silence at my once lived in house, the yellow one where she still lives and from where she sends the kids out, garnished in weekend back packs and happy smiles for our weekend journey. For a time, The wings that flutter here are not feathered but hang beating like flapping clothes, drying and waiting to be taken in, only now there are less baskets for them to covet, less hands to gently crease the seams and fold them for their own far flung scattering. |
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About Joseph Olschner |