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Chickens

Chickens

Poem By Francis Santaquilani

what aren't they?
synonymous with coward
and the colonel,
a brain prayed by all
to not be compared,
absolutely convinced
the sky is falling,
immortalized in rubber,
inspiring costumes and
made sport of at ball games
and used car lots,
plucked, drained of blood
in some santarian ceremony,
squeezed into soup with
mysterious healing properties,
more dangerous dead than alive,
breasts more desired than
marilyn monroe's,
the state bird of rhode island
and delaware too,
provider of the perfect food,
poached, scrambled, hardboiled
or sunnyside up?
the standard of flavor
all are held to, subject of
the ultimate riddle,
yet, just a little, dirty bird
unable to distinguish
its dinner from its terd.
not worthy of capitalization.

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