January 29
His hens are named, every last one. He knows
their habits, where they roost. I ask how many, passing time
with waiting room chat. Eighty-four, he tells me. The gate blows open.
I lost one last week. I ask her name.
Petunia, he says. Her name was Petunia. Before he dies
he wants to build them a condo. He lives alone.
Every evening he sits on the porch as dark rises
around him and calls to his hens. They like to roam,
he says, but I feed them and sit and they come back.
He’s stage four, small cell lung. He shrugs.
A guy he knows feeds his flock,
but he doesn’t sit with them. He doesn’t know their names.
He shows me sketches, the elaborate coop
he’s going to build, soon as he gets home. He’s penciled
all their names in the margins, a looping
cursive frame — Dosie, Sugar Bean, Sunshine, Shelly.
Quiz me, he says. I can name them all. I hold his list to the light.
He recites: Fluffy, Scooper, Flora, Bitsy. They call his number — 52.
Scan time, he says. Wait, wait, I say. Tell me your name. He laughs,
taps my shoulder as he rises, says, I’m pretty sure I’m Petunia.