The Chickens Of San Martino Spino

It is still a mess

outside.

The jackhammers.

My files.

The digital roar

of words,

makes me

anxious.

I long for Italy.

Gelato on a cone,

and the chickens of San Martino Spino.

They sat in the grass

pecking and clawing,

immune to the world

around them.

Rusty-brown bodies,

producing perfectly tan colored eggs,

that when cracked,

revealed

a brilliant orange yolk inside,

and tasted like no other I have ever eaten.

Rich as cream,

as if the sun had settled in my mouth

and I had swallowed it whole.

How good it all was then,

before the gallbladders

and sores.

Running from town to town.

me and my guitar,

The taste of pesto on my lips.

Hiding beneath blankets in October,

and longing for November,

when the heat would come on.

I can hear their clucking now.