The Chicken And The Beansprout

Nothing goes down a chicken’s throat

slicker than a slimy beansprout:

kitchen garbage, fungal, foul,

better than fresh.

The chicken’s greedy, rapturous gaze, gone sated, peers

into space. The sprouts are part of her, already,

all the way to her feet.

She stretches her neck, tilts her head,

catches the afternoon sun on her cheek.

She has nothing to do for the rest of the day

but focus on the meaning of life: tomorrow’s egg.