Twenty-seven thousand chickens!

I’d retired as a neurosurgeon
and fancied my image:  
six-foot four, a straggly moustache
ostrich cowboy boots
Lord of Layers
out in a far corner of the Valley

The tin roofs of my chicken houses
my mirrored shades
reflecting glare
a two-mile driveway
oval as an egg
ending at my mansion

My reverie is broken
as I remember how badly I piss off women
It won’t be long before all these damn hens
are frigid and eggless

I turn to my business partner
who considers himself
my buddy

and demand to know:  
What the fuck are you thinking?

-- Mitchell Krockmalnik Grabois