Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Memorial to a Chicken

It really makes no difference to me now,
What kind of instruments go in, or how

The stuffings left inside your bony carcass
Are secretly consumed in hours of darkness.

When I go spelunking with a spoon
And crack a rib or two for lack of room

Maneuvering into the cavity
Which held your heart, don’t complain to me:

Consider the condition of your head,
Had I picked up my shovel, dear, instead.

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