HAIKU AT 70 BY JOHN ROBERT LEE

i.

on arthritic spurs

the aging cock’rel prances

to the chortling chicks.

ii.

the mango blossoms

above its shingled, brown bark,

stubborn, entrenched roots.

iii.

with blustery rain

the dog peeps reluctantly

out its small window.

iv.

proprietary,

put out, the cat glares at us,

mewling plaintively.

v.

well-lit, spacious rooms

books, memorabilia

unused plates, termites.

vi.

the sexy dancer

stares past your idle glances

over fresh-laid wreaths.

vii.

the plunging seagull

bores the veined, heaving ocean,

 lifts the flying fish.