The smallest chicken listened
again to the rooster, spikes
on his ankles, red gristle
below the throat. Again
the rooster seemed to be
throating things like
I'm a dictator, I'm boss,
a movie star am I, a
celebrity, a CEO, a pastor
of a mega-church, a
full professor, a senior
partner, a Wall Street
broker, a stand-up joker!
The rooster's crew then
came over to pick at
the smallest chicken,
who took it, and who
after they finished,
amused itself by picking
at the chicken-wire,
until, one night, a
hole appeared and a coyote
entered. In the morning,
the smallest and only
remaining chicken
picked its steps through
what bones were left
and feathers and blood,
gristle and spikes and
beaks. It walked through
the hole, proclaiming nothing,
and was picked up by
the soft hands of a god
from that place the smallest
chicken had always thought
to be a bigger chicken-house.
hans ostrom copyright 2014
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