I'm confused. Kay Ryan was just named poet laureate, and all of her poems that I have found online are strangely disappointing.

Perhaps I’m not looking in the right places. Or perhaps she’s saving the good stuff for her books and not putting it all out for free online. Poet laureates are our literary Olympians. If poetry ever became a competitive sport, our nation’s laureate would be up to bat. And this what we get:

Home to Roost

The chickens

are circling and

blotting out the

day. The sun is

bright, but the

chickens are in

the way. Yes,

the sky is dark

with chickens,

dense with them.

They turn and

then they turn

again. These

are the chickens

you let loose

one at a time

and small—

various breeds.

Now they have

come home

to roost—all

the same kind

at the same speed.

Is this what it takes to become a famous poet? Chickens?

I sent this query to my best bud Jamie Sunnycalb, and received this adequate and hilarious response:

I can be a poet laureate too!

The turkeys

trot, oh so hot

the turkeys

to take over,

when the chickens

are tired,

from crossing the road

The turkeys fate


when November

come round,

served with cranberry

and stuffing by the pound.

Give the girl a book deal!


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