The kids in the yard knew a chicken could be
a paper plate, white, and perfectly
circular. A single black dot for an eye,
the cut-out wings waved hello and goodbye,
attached by a spot of clear glue.
The boy in the grey shirt ran up to me,
to show off the chicken in one hand, while he
with the other, ate cheese and potato wedges
without getting oil on the pearly paper edges.
And the graphic on his shirt was a chicken, too.
Maybe the wire fences and short city trees
had gotten to them, how they were pleased
with featherless chickens, flightless poultry.
Maybe this was the power of imagery:
how chickens could be anything
and still be chickens.