Last Night Home

A Lakenvelder rooster with a smooth white body, glossy black hackles and a black tail and a red single comb, in an olive-green padded cotton jacket over a grey knit jumper and knitted grey breeches, seated upright like a gentleman on the lid of an old tan leather suitcase in the tiled hallway of an older apartment in the evening, folded white wing feathers resting on his knees and scaled grey rooster legs with talons reaching to the floor, a string bag of orange persimmons hanging from the case handle and two empty glass jars on the floor beside it, a green-painted wooden door, a scarf on a coat hook and a pair of grey felt slippers by the wall, warm light from a ceiling lamp

The Case Will Not Shut

The week ends tomorrow, and his mother has spent the evening making sure of it. He arrived with a shirt and a book; the case now holds four jars, a tin of tea and most of the persimmon tree. He is sitting on the lid while she looks for string.

7 October 2026