when the c*ck crows
By Mxxkie
Before the c*ck crows,
And before the warm morning rays of sun,
Like a doting mother to her child,
Tap, nuzzle, and gently shake me awake
I elude “her” touch, and get out of bed.
‘Jammies and half-a-century's old boots,
Tattered and worn by time.
I leave my shelter.
I walk to the barn.
There, they wait for me.
Udders gorged and bloated,
Their eyes plead for release.
Back when I was younger,
I’d do it by hand, but with my bad hands,
Stiff at the joints,
I, instead, use the mechanical milker.
After that, it’s breakfast for them.
I next hobble my way to the stable.
There, they wait for me.
Huffing and puffing,
Stomping their hooves.
They require a full pampering,
Lucky them.
What I’d do for a good pampering. . .
First, I brush their coats.
There’s no machine for this.
Though it hurts, I take it slow.
Next comes their manes.
Finally, a hoof check-up.
Cleaning anything out
That shouldn’t be there.
Standing up, they raise their heads high
They don’t even acknowledge me.
After that, I stumble to the pen.
There, they wait for me.
Not yet squealing,
Fat and healthy pigs
Wait for their morning slop.
Breakfast, lunch, and dinner
From yesterday.
Into the void
Where stomachs should be
They take, and they take.
Until everything is gone.
After that, I limp to the coup.
There, they wait for me.
Rows upon rows of clucking chickens
They mock me from all sides,
The peck, they squawk,
It’s all too much
I grab one by the neck,
It flaps in my grasp,
I look into its eyes, and I’m taken back.
I remember this feeling
This happened yesterday,
And the day before that.
It was my dad.
These were his boots,
I’m in his shoes.
He owned this farm,
Passed it to me,
Tears swell in my eyes,
What am I doing here?
The judging eye of Mother Nature
Glares at me from just above the horizon
And when the c*ck crows,
I set down the shoes
And let the bird free.
By Mxxkie
Before the c*ck crows,
And before the warm morning rays of sun,
Like a doting mother to her child,
Tap, nuzzle, and gently shake me awake
I elude “her” touch, and get out of bed.
‘Jammies and half-a-century's old boots,
Tattered and worn by time.
I leave my shelter.
I walk to the barn.
There, they wait for me.
Udders gorged and bloated,
Their eyes plead for release.
Back when I was younger,
I’d do it by hand, but with my bad hands,
Stiff at the joints,
I, instead, use the mechanical milker.
After that, it’s breakfast for them.
I next hobble my way to the stable.
There, they wait for me.
Huffing and puffing,
Stomping their hooves.
They require a full pampering,
Lucky them.
What I’d do for a good pampering. . .
First, I brush their coats.
There’s no machine for this.
Though it hurts, I take it slow.
Next comes their manes.
Finally, a hoof check-up.
Cleaning anything out
That shouldn’t be there.
Standing up, they raise their heads high
They don’t even acknowledge me.
After that, I stumble to the pen.
There, they wait for me.
Not yet squealing,
Fat and healthy pigs
Wait for their morning slop.
Breakfast, lunch, and dinner
From yesterday.
Into the void
Where stomachs should be
They take, and they take.
Until everything is gone.
After that, I limp to the coup.
There, they wait for me.
Rows upon rows of clucking chickens
They mock me from all sides,
The peck, they squawk,
It’s all too much
I grab one by the neck,
It flaps in my grasp,
I look into its eyes, and I’m taken back.
I remember this feeling
This happened yesterday,
And the day before that.
It was my dad.
These were his boots,
I’m in his shoes.
He owned this farm,
Passed it to me,
Tears swell in my eyes,
What am I doing here?
The judging eye of Mother Nature
Glares at me from just above the horizon
And when the c*ck crows,
I set down the shoes
And let the bird free.
