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.

Comments about Chickens

There is no comment submitted by members.


Rating Card

4,3 out of 5
5 total ratings

Other poems of SANTAQUILANI

We Are Tigers

We are tigers.
You are the larger one.
I warred against your whirl,
Then billowed to your bite.

Sailing On

He's in this room?

He's not being rocked
Side to side.

Quartz Clock

Never by gold or silver hands
On a black face, or bonging
Menacingly from a tower
In some foreign place.

It Was An Unattended Death

It was an unattended death.

The universe looked the other way

Accidental Death And Dismemberment

A fixture now in my garage's gape.
Grateful for my coffeemug hand.
Old sawdust and powdery snow blow
Through the ghost of my hammering hand

I Like How You Pray

I like how you pray.

You just stop