Prairie Poetry   
  Fried Chicken

White leghorn contently
scratching for bugs in the
warm summer afternoon.

She picks the chicken up by
the neck and wrings it round
and round, longer and longer
the neck would stretch until
the body would fly off into
the air. hitting the ground
and jumping around in a
death dance.

The head and neck still in
her hand, watching it's body
dance the dance of death.

Throwing a number 3 wash-
tub over the dancing body
and then we heard the thump,
thump of the drum beat of
the dance of death.

We had fried chicken for
supper that warm summer
evening. I had none.

  Robert D. Jackson
  Copyright © 2005 Robert D. Jackson
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