-another moment in the history of time-

one can seduce the bob-headed

backyard chickens,

snag the lazy coop-sitters day-

dreaming of better times

or like my grandfather,

buy a few chickens living and feathered

behind Gioconi’s little store

at the corner of Healy and Quarry,

carry them to the first-floor entry

of the house, tie their legs together

with a sturdy twine,

hang 'em upside down against

the pea-green plaster of the inside

wall of the entry and slice

their throats with a jackknife

over the shallow pans

where the blood-drops tapped.

the dog will go crazy

running in frantic zig-zags

with a hard-on — but

the visiting catholic schoolgirls,

classmates of my teenaged sister,

opened the distance between themselves

and the wing-flapping birds in the throes of death,

gliding against the opposite wall

forming with their navy blue jumpers

a trail of slow-burning meteorites arcing

toward the screen-door to the clamor of the kitchen

where my sister will greet them.

my visiting neighborhood friends

have seen this sight before

and so, ironically, has the egg-man.

but the sales-rep for Encyclopedia Britannica,

horrified as he might be

will knock on the warped-

wood frame of the screen-door anyway.

there’s the New Edition to peddle

and it looks like he's got a heavy load.

once inside, the restlessness intensifies.                          

                                        Quequechan