Two birds stood by the dusty road,
and wond’ring whether both should cross
one took two steps, but as he strode,
though fearful of the other’s goad,
returned in dread of sudden loss.
There stood the other, acting brave,
and raising fluffed and feathered breast
as if to say, “You churlish knave,
so frightened, like a master’s slave;
I’ll prove to you that I’m the best.”
The bully coxswain scratched the earth,
its talon tossing stones and dust:
to prove its courage had no dearth
and validate its noble birth,
began its task with mighty thrust.
The farmer told this with a sigh
that somewhere, out there, now deceased,
their mighty gobbler reached the sky—
uplifted when a truck passed by—
so chicken’s their Thanksgiving feast.
Ken Gosse prefers writing short, rhymed verse with traditional meter, usually filled with whimsy and humor. First published in First Literary Review–East in November 2016, his poems are also in The Offbeat, Pure Slush, Parody, Home Planet News Online, Eclectica, and other publications. Raised in the Chicago suburbs, now retired, he and his wife have lived in Mesa, AZ, over twenty years.