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Empty Nesters

The day we were scheduled to retire
from farmstead to townhouse,
leaving the squawking coop
to neighbors we’d never know again,

the Cinnamon Queen we favored
for the way she marched the barnyard
like a Master Sergeant on parade,
keeled over in the noonday sun.

We had already passed papers,
the new owners had large dogs,
so, I had to borrow a shovel
to cradle her to the grave.

By the time we got into our car,
we were less eager to depart,
and as the house we’d built
shrunk to the size of an egg

we doubted our best laid plans.

—
James Lowell currently writes from a spartan, two-mile island in the Atlantic’s stream, winter population eight souls. Short- and long-listed for Fish’s 2026 poetry prize, his work has appeared in Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Canadian Literature, Caribbean Writer, English, Fortnight, Fourth River, Gramercy, L.A. Review, Martha’s Vineyard Times, Milk House Review, O Miami, Orchard Poetry Journal, Northern Appalachia Review, Sandy River Review, Southern Florida Poetry Journal, and Southwestern American Literature.

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