Owls crowd your never-been-cleaned,
heavy-draped rooms: predatory lamps,
stark glares over edges of picture frames,
vigilant figurines, carved handle on the ceiling
fan’s pull chain. Even a yellow-eyed bed throw.
Your days link in iceless whiskey,
smoke-rings from discount cigarettes.
Folk wisdom reveals a remedy
for drunkenness is raw owl eggs,
nailing up owl’s wings wards off lightning.
You sleep while chicken fries,
in an cast iron skillet and wake,
as flames rise from the char, fly,
talons open, in a flurry of curtains.