Spring Chickens

Someone spilled coffee

on last Sunday’s comics.

The navy, charcoal,

hide-colored jackets

lurk by the kitchen window.

I hear mustaches.

There is

rhythmic bawking

in the near distance;

suspicious, for-warning

an executioner’s drumbeat.

 

Our feathered gladiators thump,

flap and crow, proudly.

 

I follow the pre-lit path

to the illuminated doorway;

 

the sign points the way

to where the men decide our fates.

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