Mother Hens can’t help it.
It’s in their DNA, it’s what they are.
You may know the breed — she may be a
relative visiting from the hinterlands, or
a semi-invited in-law passing through
on her way to somewhere she’s in no
particular hurry to get to….yet, to your house,
she’ll flit here/there like a barnyard chicken,
approve or disapprove of everything, glance
askance at something you’re wearing or doing.
Peck a little, talk a little, cluck, cluck, cluck!

But you will outlast the guested busybody —
you’re a poet, and poets can rise high above
it all, see the big picture. Poets know chickens
eventually go home to roost. Poets know this
too will pass away. Come to think of it,
Mother Hens would probably make passable
poets….if only they knew how and when to fly.