Chickens

Chickens, plump and muddied,

Ivory feathers stained with grey-brown shadows,

Little innocent three-pronged feet sticking out

Here and there in every clumsy direction.

Chickens resting, chickens cooing,

Chickens dying.

An odor, wafting through the cars that bob along the highway,

Windows cracked as the commuters

Breathe their last gasps of fresh air,

Before beginning their cubicled days.

But the waves come fast and sudden, thick and hot.

The hot air of vomit, blood, excrement and garbage.

Heads turn to glimpse the putrid truck,

Rumbling and ricketing down I-5.

And in between the tightly woven wooden slats,

Roll and jiggle and rot the chickens.

Fat, broken-legged chickens,

Bathed in their own remains,

Heading to the factories for their long day of work.