City Chickens

They strut around their concrete enclosure, pecking for seed, 
like disgruntled old ladies making a mild fuss

about the food, while empty chip bags and soda cans
blow against their rusty chain-link fence.

I have a friend vacationing in Portugal as we speak. 
Another touring temples in Japan. Yet another on a tiny island

off the coast of Greece, while I’m marooned here, 
counting steps around the same old city block,

exchanging daily WhatsApp messages with the friend 
on the island. She wonders if she’ll ever settle down, 

and if not, is something wrong with her? Probably. I mean,
there’s something wrong with all of us. I never thought 

I’d end up like this, domesticated as a pet lamb, 
with a mate who worries our hundred-year-old house

needs new everything, shingles to foundation. 
But such is fate. Oh, my sweet, my stick-in-the-mud, my dear,

who still touches my face tenderly
in the kitchen and knows I’ll always hanker 

and hunger, whine and sigh over other people’s Instagrams. No fix 
for an itchy mind. We’ll probably never go anywhere,

but it’s OK (most days). I’ve seen Paris. I’ve been to Peru.
Passing the chickens a second time, I wonder,

which neighbor was it who sought to create 
their dream farm scenario in an East Oakland tenement? 

Enclosed by a chain-link fence, guarded by a slobbering dog, 
the hens pick their way with scabrous claws

over pebbles and cement, emitting soft, gossipy squawks.
They’re distant descendants of dinosaurs, and like all of us

they wear their ordinary disguise, scanning the world 
for food or danger with hungry eyes.