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Worried on the days he does not see it, concerned on the
days he does. He likes it, it owns the intersection, has balls.
Later, much later towards midnight after making love, he
wonders aloud if he could somehow capture the black rooster.
Catch it and bring it home, a stray if you will. Keep it in the
backyard as a pet. Feed it Cheerios or leftovers or something.
I juliet-lewis lie, ummm, yeah baby, 'course you can. Knowing
that there is that off chance the following day, he very well could
show up at five thirty, scratched and bloody with an irate bird
wrapped in a sports coat, and secretly, I would be glad.
There might be a day I will love having a rooster in the
backyard, doodle-doing its fool head off at 4AM. I'll say-
"Would you just look at me! I look like hell! It's that fucking bird."
He'll conveniently notice how sexy I am, change the subject.
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 Life's Home |
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Coleen Shin  |
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