Chicken

I will give you all I’ve made today
for a chicken sandwich wrapped
in golden tinfoil.
It looks like treasure or the brain
of something ancient and mechanical,
beyond all we consider to be normal.
No more awkward dinners where the words
all come out empty and the glasses all
are empty and the halls outside
the dining room are barely lit
by candles smelling terrible.
I want to sleep in through the rooster
crows that wake the sleeping cattle
like alarm clocks set by nature
to annoy us while it keeps
the flock in line.
I want to make sound with the drumsticks
like Chick Webb sweating straight
through all his pinstriped suits
to sing for us by hitting things
with everything he had.
I want to feed her cat
before she wakes up in the morning
and pace quietly by the window
with the shades shut so that
only I can see when I make
space between them slightly
with my fingers.
Although, in retrospect
it doesn’t’ really matter what I want
because while I am writing this
and can make anything appear
out of thin air.
The real world’s authored
by a different kind of committee
smoking cigarettes and burring out
their desk lamps until it’s far too
dark to see things how they are.

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