Let him say goodbye
To his chickens
Before you grab
His favorite Phillips head

You have to find
The tiny screws
Hidden amongst his
Worn with age tattoos

Once he’s open
Fish souls slither
Back into the lake
Down the road
Before he has time
To re-hook his line

The only thing left
Is coloring him back in
With dark pencils
To match the grease stains
On his Indian skin

Hurry though
His little girl is coming
She is his rooster
That starts everyday
And without her father
She forgets how to crow