A chicken piece as a small as a morning drop
Drops in muddy flour and rolls
He applies another hammer to the stubborn
Rock that is wedged in the side
Of the short mountain
The chicken drop drops in the boiling oil
Left over from last night supper
The oil eventually find its way to the
Lamps that are lighting the caves
He finds his first nugget glistening in the
Winter’s sun, the light rays bounces of
The nugget every time his thumb
Rubs its face, a smile creeps on his face
The drops on his face become mirrors
She calls the missing children for
Dinner that is unhealthy and delicious
No one died from eating deep fried chicken
Nuggets she would argue or did they?
We all die eventually, the ghost voices
Reply cheerfully …
The drops on his face become mirrors
Reflecting her tired sadness,
A face ageing.
October 17, 2017
