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An Irish Chicken Avoids Her Deathby Robert SchechterI think that I shall meet my fateSomewhere beyond the yellow line; Those that I flee I do not hate Though they would wash me down with wine; I hope they will not feel the loss, Nor do I wish to leave them poor, But when I found a road to cross I knew that I could stay no more. Nor rice, nor gravy bade my flight, Nor barbecues, nor marinades, A lonely impulse of delight Drove my fear of sharpened blades; I balanced all, brought all to mind, It seemed a shame to die as meat, And so I left the farm behind, And that is why I crossed the street.
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Robert Schechter has had poems and translations published in Light Quarterly, Anon, Evansville Review, Poetry East, among other journals.