The Cockerel Waltz

The hills are alive with streams of garbage,
cascading in the early morning light,
rooster calling his brood, a mechanical
crow, dialed in for the digital world.

His view was unchanged, values embedded
over a lifetime, hammered home, well worn,
a proud calling, completely false, full
of pretense and vitriol. He was right,

and that was enough for him.
As for the rest of us, the debate
continued into the night, the
caw, caw, cawing- feathers everywhere.

We took a trip downtown, the
power had gone out, the
aging infrastructure hid dangers,
but we continued on searching,

for a wine bar or any bar really.
Without light we had to feel
our way through the streets,
an occasional headlight casting

long shadows against the abandoned
shop windows. The glow of a cigarette,
a small beacon adding comfort to
an uncomfortable after glow.

We hurried, eyes closed until
finally the street opened up
and before long, we were
two glasses into early morning.

Soon thereafter or so it seemed
with a thin sliver of light in sight,
an eye opening, we walked in two
directions, you to the light and me

into darkness.




Alexander Milne
Copyright © 2013