The Impatient Chef Writes a Poem

I haven't written a poem for a few years, but I had a the inspiration a while ago,  I sat on the idea for this one for a while, and then worked on it slowly.  I think it's finished.  So, The Impatient Chef presents...

Whackety Chop

Winter wind swirls at the country cafe

With tall trees in the back, a parking lot, 

And a chicken coop full of laying hens, 

Making breakfast for the regulars.

She twirls in the kitchen while raindrops ,like

Bumble bees at full speed, splat on the windows.

With two spatulas she makes omelets, 

Whackety chop, clanging on the hot grill.

“Order up!” she calls out above the noise.

The trees bend, morning regulars murmur.

The roof creaks.  Hens squawk.  Eyes wide as the storm.  

A fox is near, nose points to the hen house.

He is wet.  And so cold.  The hens are dry.  

Lightning sizzles.  She cracks eggs in a bowl,

She beats them with a fork, swirling like leaves.

Whackety chop.  Eggs on the grill, ham

Hash browns, bacon, biscuits, chicken fried steak.  

“Order up!” she calls above the plates.

The hens lay eggs, and lay more tomorrow.

 Pigs are fully committed to the meal.

Their smells intermingle on the hot grill, 

And with coffee with cream, and some sugar.

Eyes glow in the cafe window’s soft light.

The wind howls so that the fox won’t have to. 

The coop roof lifts off, and sails through the storm, 

The chickens look up, understanding ham.