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When I hear the rooster
Go cock-a-doodle-do, loud as ever,
It convinces me that it is like a trumpet
Or a commanding stentorian voice,
Leading me to march out of bed.
And I do, my eyes looking through
The window pane, at the sight
Of sun-rays sneaking through
Just like themes for a new poem,
And the curtain standing as filter
And I’m like that jailbird,
Who snuggles under the quilt,
Learning that this sentence called life
Is worthy of 9-5 hard labor,
While the rest of the time, I play
Just about everything; my harmonica,
The DVD player, a Billie Joel Song,
And my wife, whose sustain pedal,
Unlike a piano, is played by
My pressing tongue,
A-Ok, all good vibrations,
Looking at her squirm,
Like a fish on land.
