Cup with chickens

I want a coffee cup with chickens,

like I used to have or gave

to a girl

to imagine

married life with me.

How good it would be.

With a long view from the window

and one or two clouds

(but no chickens,

just the idea of them).

Now, married

with children (no chickens),

in the city not the country,

I can see life with me

is a fifty-fifty

proposition –

and less than that if you want

big bucks or chickens.

(Some do.)

Or a man who’s not cranky.

(Some do.)

Still, it’s good to remember

how I hoped it would be

(and is)

so I’m going to track down that cup.

Here in this city I’m sure there’s a cup

with chickens.

Why I love my wife

As I dress she asks,

Another day at the

wood-chopping farm?

And yes, it does begin

in a kind of wood

where trees pose a problem,

physically or metaphorically,

and you wouldn’t want one

landing wrong in either case.

My chopping, of course,

being but a form of bewilderment,

won’t bring one down, but

you’re right to note, dear,

my attire would well serve

the man who could.