AN IRISH CHICKEN AVOIDS HER DEATH

with apologies to William Yeats

 

I think that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere beyond the yellow line;
Those that I flee I do not hate 
Though they would wash me down with wine;
I hope they will not feel the loss,
Nor do I wish to leave them poor,
But when I found a road to cross
I knew that I could stay no more.
Nor rice, nor gravy bade my flight,
Nor barbecues, nor marinades,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove my fear of sharpened blades; 
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
It seemed a shame to die as meat,
And so I left the farm behind,
And that is why I crossed the street. 

(this poem first appeared in Bumbershoot)

© 2019 Robert Schechter 

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