Rooster in a Flower Bed

Is there a better image than
a rooster in a flower bed?
Proof life is spunky: how about
a rooster in a flower bed.
My favorite pop song is
“Rooster in a Flower Bed”
and everyone knows the melody,
but the words are tricky, absolutely cool
if you can’t remember them all.
My favorite candy bar tastes like a flower,
a whole bed of them, and on the wrapper is a rooster.
What I’m saying is I will put
my rooster in your flower bed
if that is what you’re into, baby.
What I’m saying is I want you
to put your flowers in my butt pockets with the rooster.
And if you don’t like those ideas,
you better keep your hatchet off my rooster
if you want me to keep my rooster out of your flower bed.
Are you confused yet?
Are you convinced yet?
Flower in my rooster bed.
The rooster in my bed is a flower.
My bed is a rooster but also a flower.
Silly rooster, you can’t sleep in a flower bed!
Yeah yeah, I know it sounds magical.
Wake up and get away from the roses!
I gave the rooster a biscuit for breakfast
and he buried it in the flower bed.
Take that! he says to three goats
caged up in the background.
One of the most valuable things
a rooster can learn in this life:
the location of every flower bed
here to the river. The river overflows
and washes away the flower bed,
the rooster along with it. The flood,
the flowers, the rooster at your door.
Knock-knock. Who’s there?
Rooster. Rooster who?
Rooster in a flower bed gettin jiggy wit it!
Rooster thighs like WHAT?! WHAT?! WHAT?!
Someone I love says,
I’d like your rooster more
if he weren’t such a douche bag.
The power in pairs. I’ll never forget again.
In the flower bed, of course:
The rooster an arrowhead in its mouth.
The rooster stomping on a compact disc.
The rooster praying praying praying.
There’s a little faith left in all of us.
There’s a flower bed in each of our souls.
There’s a rooster there, doing something, you decide what.
On one of those first silly days
and a rooster appeared, strutting around in the flower bed.
I’m beginning to think this rooster is dangerously aware
of how miraculous he is, here in this flower bed.
One day, he’ll feel terribly embarrassed
for how he’s acted, but that’s not today.
No, not today with the sunshine and breeze
making the flowers do a little dance.
Is this rooster in the flowerbed on drugs?
asks a concerned mother. No, not today.
He’s pecking at earthworms. He’s a rowdy fella,
but those flowers know how to hold him.
I hope this scene lasts forever,
but immediately a voice sprints into the driveway
of the poem, says “Yo, is that a magician you got there?”
No, man, it’s a rooster in a flowerbed.
But maybe he could reach into his pocket
and pull out daisies and petunias and roses
strung together, maybe he could pull himself
out of a hat. Do you get it yet?
That brilliant idea, a rooster in a flower bed,
the image on t-shirts and hats and coffee mugs,
captioned: Just a rooster in a flowerbed.
Rowdier than “Just a stick in the mud.”
Prettier than “Kicking a dead horse.”
I am not an object, it says.
I am a moment, it says.
Chaos as a selling point!
Rooster in a flower bed!
Someone once said my poems were boring
because they’re all about you
but you’re not the rooster
and you’re not the flowerbed
and that person is probably bored now
if they’ve even got the guts to make it this far.
And despite all of this, when the rooster dies,
the flowers grow taller still.