Poem: Another Chicken

 

Another Chicken

 

a thin neck takes blade.

the hatchet crouches

on bespattered bench.

the same split throat

that has always been, 

a predator-prey

ping-pong game of pulsing red.

ghosts of limp plump

domesticated birds

lurk in the muck,

 but maybe they should have been 

left alone to fly.

not bred down, 

those whose ancestors

were once bright actors,

before the Era of the Forearm Flex--

this time of thoughtless tensors

overlorded by a scourge of myopia.

this global slaughterhouse

of unthought whys.

 

 

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5/25/26 massive modifications