The Chicken
The chicken grew up on its
own droppings, left
Kansas City on a stiff
northern rain. All
its life led up to a flurry;
truck, darkness, feathers, hands;
pop went its neck;
innards slug out. Then
along I come in a Buick.

This is not to lament
the chicken, nor dismiss it;
for that creature made me
happy, filled my gullet, eased
my work dead mind
at the Barbecue King with
my wife and children snapping
french fries, chomping meat
in peach colored twilight.


This is not to lament our beastiality.
I only wonder at God’s ways,
our teeth, claws and
the world going out our assholes.