Dreaming of obsolete automobiles
Roadcrosser, the rambunctious chicken,
dances across the road.
Somewhere in her DNA
memories of two-leggeds and the crumbs they threw
fuel her frenzied crossing.
Old Mother Hubbard’s garden and dinner bells
do not ring over fallow fields.
zigged and zagged
a headless dance
that fills fowl stories
beyond the demise of yesterday.
Grandmother Chicken danced into the pond
spilling blood from her body
across the barnyard ballroom.
Nailed on a hat-rack fence post
her head squawked a protest song
before the end of everything.
When she reaches the other side,
Roadcrosser imagines the beheading.
Swallowing a lump in her chicken throat,
she sings Grandmother Chicken’s protest song,
unaware of the admiring eyes
of the last remaining two-legged
peering between a crack
in second story curtains
while sharpening her hatchet
and dreaming of Kentucky Fried.
Brenda Warren 2011
The wordle at The Sunday Whirl this week provided a bizarre assortment of words. I thought the best way to tackle them was with something quirky or playful. Friday night, I went to bed with the words dancing through my head. I woke up at 1:30 a.m. and wrote down the phrase: The rambunctious chicken danced across the road. When I went back to sleep landscapes of apocalyptic times visited my dreams. I combined the two ideas in Roadcrosser. It is my fervent wish that Roadcrosser survive, to pass on her Grandmother’s protest song.