Barbara’s chickens

get fed once a day:
an empty Greek yogurt pot worth of grain
and the odd cabbage from a family member.
Barbara’s chickens peck my boots
but not my running trainers
and they have the face of a soap opera hard man.
To me, Barbara is
a square lawn and a bible in the kitchen.
Her muscles are dotted throughout the road
digging up her weeds, cleaning her windows,
updating the street’s WhatsApp.
Here bones are collected in a hospital,
resting.

© Carl Burkitt 2021

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