The Sight

My Uncle Fletcher,

Our county seer,

Bestowed his gifts

On my no-good cousin Jeff,

Who had a feeling

About nearly everything.

"That guy of hers . . ."

"Those fucking queers . . ."

He'd say, giving me the eye,

Which was the same eye

That could gaze upon

A yellow froth of newborns,

And know the cockerels

From the pullets.