I wonder why the thought strikes me,
Not the usual sort of thing I’d think about.
Like a true lapsed Catholic, I see her now
As an apparition, the Virgin Mary herself,
Protector of the everyman, everywoman.
She’s a chicken dancing in an alcove
High above the ground, watching over us,
Lit red with a holy light, watching over us.
I wonder if anyone ever stops in their tracks
And thinks more or less the same thing
And drops to their knees to give thanks.
Drunk students maybe, pilgrims from the pub
As they journey in search of some sojourn
To adjourn the hunger or else to quell
The yearning of their churning stomachs.
I do not know them. I find an odd new
Horror in the picture of their prostration,
An echo of some frenzied ululation made
By the slayer of nations – I think of a line
From Joyce, an explosion both guttural and
Cynical, as I watch on in silent consternation.
I wonder if this is all a metaphor, a satire even,
Maybe, or a warning sign hanging above the
Restaurant sign that says DO NOT ENTER,
But in a more philosophical sense. I don’t
Recognise the street anymore, by the red
Light of a hundred chicken alcoves. Is this the
Moment of my next conversion? Not veganism,
That’s not the cross I’m seeing. So… do I become
The communist that my family called me
One drunken night? Am I that same vision,
Now overwhelmed by the capitalist pigs
Taking on their supreme form, capitalist chickens?
I wonder if they’ll peck my eyes out.
I wonder if it’s something else entirely.