Fowl Dance

A clean page defiled
Bloated, cluttered and scratched
Watch this pen like a hen
Scratch its way
Haltingly, erratically
Across a kitchen yard
Hither and thither,
The churned white, marred
Not a thought in its
Pea-sized mind.

Hey.

Watch this.

Here comes the axe.

Silence.

The gouting stream makes
Remarkable little noise
A scrabbling fury
Caught on tape
Makes precious little more sound
Than the living bird itself.
Death is a stinking art
The coppery smell
The emptied-bowel stench
The muddy yard flung in clods in the air…
I guess it's chicken tonight.

8/3/03