Art, Not Cockfighting

And so they brought him out
one last time,

the weary champion,
the feathered prince

of Instagram.
And the poets gathered

by the neon coop.
They alone, among

the adoring throng,
sensed tragedy

in the bright colors,
the plumage that

had always burned
with light of its own.

“A third time,” they sang.
“A third time

is madness.”
For the proud,

the end is always
a catastrophe.

Ali’s last fight.
Willie Mays’ last season.

The poets bowed their heads
and drew their comparisons

while the crowd cheered,
as they always had,

for the divine rooster,
the flaming symbol

of the muses.
The poets turned

and began a sorrowful
walk home.

They simply could not bear
to be there

for his final round.
“A third time

is madness,”
they mumbled

to themselves
while behind them,

just over there,
the most beautiful,

the most regal

of all posts
was swallowed

in dust
and orange glare.

“Let us drink a toast
to the Old Chanticleer.”

–August 17, 2017