10 Beats on the Problem of Free Chickens

We had thirteen chickens and no idea

how to contain them. They were free poultry

as bold and certain as birds can manage;

they treated their coop as a daytime lounge.

Preferred were the low branches of white pine

or the comforting gnarl of cedar trees

or the seats of an overturned row boat;

though even more, high in our porch rafters,

where clucking and cooing and molting thrummed

steady, rhythmic. So we’d sit, dodging shit.


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741