ELEGY FOR WASTED CHICKENS

We already know the way they do it,
squashed in cages, unable
to stand, move, spread wings
until it is their time to become
Wangs or cordon bleu or parmigiana,
make Popeye and the Colonel richer.

Even the defective tiny chicks 
are gassed like baby Jews,
the yellow from the stars
cover their quivering bodies.

 In a cafeteria, my student shouted:  
“Yuck, throw those wings away.
They’re disgusting; I hate them.”
My daughter boiled chicken,
a fat breast and a leg quarter
for her dog, but it was too fatty,
crunched it down the disposal.

Does it matter if the chicken is eaten?
In Chicken Heaven is there a kind
of dignity if you are consumed
instead of a funeral in a garbage bin?

Originally published in Synchronized Chaos