Chicken on a hot tin roof

The sun cast mirages against the coops'
tin roofs, a maple plank a question to
the two youths, Pat and Peg, feet sizzling
and Peg's mouth spitting cool challenges, "Hey,

Don't be chicken." There was Pat whistling
away his hesitation as if he
had not heard her. Shown in the light of day,
the height did not measure his fears. His feet

still stayed, burned to hot metal. Peg's sneered judgement
seared hotter. "They're calling for you way down
there." He dodged the question, branded soles sent
him whooping, frozen all exclamation

above the uncertain plank, a rooster
      in that still air.

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