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you've got your name for me...
you call me chicken fat. you think it hurts each time its spat out from your foul mouth. but I think different. I meditate on this: fat is what keeps the chicken warm fat is what keeps the chicken from harm I think THAT in my head every time your meaty fist pummels me or when you say your black words. so every time you cackle or caw: Chicken FAT! I think on this. And I've studied it some. I think on how chicken fat melts and sizzles off the bone. I think on how I might be different when I've grown older. But also on how you'll still be the same blackness inside only growing blacker and still playing at the same see-saw game of "I'm better than you" and still having the 50-50 chance of coming up a loser. Every day I'm lookin' in the mirror now. LOOK: I see a bright red robin tilting her head. She sings about the promises of Spring. I see a Lark too. She sings long elaborate songs of a beautiful summer. And there is a beautiful wise Cedar Wax Wing who can survive anything that a rough winter will throw at her. And somewhere in that mirror might even be a Swan. Long-necked and graceful and proud. Where are you these day? Is it a sad bitter end to your tale? You aren't even planted. No one to visit you in your last garden. There is no grave. And no one to come visit you long after you are gone. Not even the wind, Sir, But I have forgiven you. Is it a child's forgiveness? No, it is my own, now. Copyright September 4 2014 All Rights Reserved By This Author (these various words still stuck in my head from a long time ago thought maybe in different words from different mouths) All Poetry/Prose/Stories/Rants/Ideas Are the Sole Legal Property of this Writer/Meloo/Meliss A Howells Copyright Tilt-a-World thank you Vote for this poem |
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