by Miles “Danger” Kennedy
I’ve heard you walk for minutes after.
If allowed you’d strut away, but caged
wings cannot fly, only fry. Not that they’d help you: fight
is the only natural response when
your purpose ensconced in sauce or crisp of gold,
disallows your being.
Denuded of snood for fast food or soup for sick kids,
denuded of feather for flu patients under the weather
headless and bereft of brethren your purpose was always edible and easily consumed.
Like pop music and chocolate, plucked
of tough talk and stuffed.
Baked birds are hard to identify
Kentucky fried.
Miles “Danger” Kennedy is an avid avian admirer and fledgling poet. They hope for world peace for both humans and birds!