Chicken Feet

   Thwarting rainbowed drops of fiery steel

I dodge under the old red truck,

And hold my bursting breath inside,

tingling as the grey wind pants hungrily over me,

Sniffing my soggy flesh through the toothless holes

in the rusty muffler.

Jack calls my name from the dry side of the screen door.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are."

But the grass smells sweet and muddy sticky,

and I never win,

So I crouch mouselike in the storm, soaking in soupy puddles,

watching yellow chicken feet scamper to the coop.

I peel off the stained red paint and the spiky

rubber pieces from the tire,

Sucking my dirty pink thumb for company,

hoping to be found.