An Old Poult

An Old Poult

He walks into the backyard
  On two legs
His red head, bald as vultures’
  Bobs with his pigeon tread

He neither cackles
  Nor warbles now
Silently stepping, looking down
  Pecking at the grit

Proud Tom,
  Only last week,
Through this self same yard
  Did you strut, the grand rooster
Cacking, cackling for your three
  Under-impressed turkey brides
Who ignored you,
  As they’d seen it all before
As you took a stand
  Enlarging in a ruffle and
Commenced to shaking as brown leaves
  On trees in wind
Fuss of an indian war bonnet
  With your fan tail display and stomping about

“No matter,” they clucked
  as they pecked about the dirt

And where are your harem hens now?

Somewhere a dozen eggs
  Hidden in some brush upon a scrape
Are silently attended
  Waiting for their new lives to escape
   
And some will meet cars
  Others, coyote-dogs
The hardy scrapping on
  To be young turks

For life is of the species
  Not the soul, as
Tomorrows croaking Tom
  Is todays poult