image borrowed from jannie
The Rooster In My Coffee
A rooster floats on my coffee
then morphs into hair like Joni’s
in her painting from long ago.
The rooster reappears wearing
a wedding dress and one Roman
sandal with a dangling strap.
The rooster is not chicken.
He leaps from my mug to the
kitchen table and dances.
I’ve not seen pirouettes and
rond de jambes that fine since
the winter Ballerina Jane and I
gambled in a Russian bakery
by night and ached in tall towers
of boredom and bones by day.
Rooster likes my Highland fling.
Is impressed I suffer only three
nicks during my sword dance.
We cavort around the house
until he darts out the back door,
over the cat, under the fence,
and back to the magical mist
he danced from. Gone forever
but always with me in spirit,
especially on mornings like this
when distant lattes crow and
the trees are all playing guitars.
Jannie Funster
Posted over on her site Jannie Funster
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