Most Chickens Never Get To Cross A Road

When eighteen rubber tires meet the road,

a hum like a mighty ocean liner’s

reverberates off the distant hilltops

and an invisible bow wave washes

unsuspecting creatures out of the way

sparing them the fate of being flattened

unless, like cattle or men, they’re too large

and crunch against an overheated grill

already crocheted with a million bugs

constantly flung through long despairing nights

on some rock pock-marked common carrier.

In winter semi exhaust turns to frost

as it hits the endless asphalt ribbon

constructed when the weather was warmer

and headstrong roosters ruled chicks from the roost

many miles from this feather littered road

then the only way to the hatchery

and the only road leading out of it

for semi’s fully loaded sad burdens

still living except for a few dead ones

whose outrage and shock already killed them.

I, a spacey, prepubescent farm boy,

didn’t have to deal with any of this.

Content with hastily written essays

extolling the virtues of animal

husbandry, my heady sense of freedom,

responsibility for fostering

the welfare of a dozen or so chicks,

gave me hope I’d garner a Blue Ribbon

that would make my family proud of me

and the envy of other moms and dads

lacking the good sense to be my parents.

Nothing prepared me for semis rushing

down a feather lined Minnesota road

hatchery to factory slaughterhouse

nor suspect their rubber that met that road

would dispatch a million victims or more

monthly from Minnesota to market

so plentiful they drove their prices down

while my Rhode Island Red winning rooster

continued to wear his ribbon proudly.

The hum of hen laden semis grows dim

as another beautiful morning dawns.