Head Off A Chicken
for F.A.H.

don’t know if I’ve the right
to appear tailor-made
though poems I write and polish, are

I pretend to be rough, to be raw
to be ready to growl

how right out of a magazine
how Felicity is
how she looked today

as well organized as I heard
the Milan Gardens are

so petal pretty
so petal soft

to brush up against rough me
cross between, farmer, fisherman
and construction worker

how different our stations
our histories are

her father, I recall now,
is a psychiatrist, a medical doctor

his wealth, wisdom, discipline
to draw on all her days
all day long

until she could launch
her own ship

so many of us, of ours
born in chaos,
live in chaos,
die in chaos


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2008
1:50 p.m. 19.05.08