Not the first to draw a smile,
All too often jokes about chicken,
Bring a glimmer to my face,
A touch of humor with feelings driven.
Hens and chicks scurry about,
Order called, but who is first?
Protective shelter under her wing,
As nature’s path is trans-versed.
Sunny side up, a glistening yoke,
Such color yellow—or even golden,
The breakfast plate is ready now,
And, tasty, so thanks to be beholden.
The fast is ended—I am dismissed,
The yoke was broken, the repast scrambled.
All is well for the first meal,
The open menu was why I gambled.
Francis Conlon is a retired and recovering teacher. For the past 20 years, he has worked as a seasonal river ranger and boat inspector at Yampa River State Park in northwest Colorado. He has published in the local Valley Voice and in Westward Quarterly. He currently lives in Salt Lake City, Utah.