that lately she starts to expect it;
whenever a naughty question's asked
whether her elbow's cold on the fridge,
or her bare knees are pricked by the rug,
or if she's listening, prone on her bed,
or anywhere— on the bus with transients,
in a parking lot, out to eat Chinese,
or kicking stones from her shoe,
she feels, first, the comb push
up through her skull; high cheekbones compress,
her septum juts & curls.
Smaller eyes, which slide
toward her temples, stare at her red legs,
her claws & feathers, that stiff tail.
As she's a lovely woman,
she's such a gorgeous hen,
& men's hands reach to take her back;
however, she doesn't need that,
spots a link fence she hadn't seen
& takes to circling.
Then she strains out the egg.
Then she clucks at the world.
She's never surprised.