Chicken of Despair

Every dawn I romped with the chicken of despair.
Afterwards I would roast it and eat it hot.
The dinner dance often clucked ‘til dusk;
fat with chicken I was a stout but happy fellow.
Now, your diet pills, taken with cold water
(because a fat man must never dance outside)
make me hate even the smell of chickens.
I am not thinner.
Nor am I empty.

I’m a wicker man.
Virgin fear clucking in my belly.
Alight, we could roast together,
but I must let it peck and claw my insides;
eat my cornflakes and cheese sandwiches and smile
(because I know it will want a dance after its tea).
I say I like them and you say I’m better.
I am better.
Better at hiding chicken bones.

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