It seems odd coming right after Easter like this, but happy April Fools Day! Salt in the sugar bowl, bubble wrap under the rug – are they classics, or cliches? Here’s a poem for which I gathered and strung together all the chicken cliches I could think of. Credit to Blain’s Farm and Fleet of Jackson, Michigan, for the chicken flock photo.

The Chicken Sonnet

Some call me Little and some call me Spring
but everybody wants a piece of me:
they dream of a delectable hot wing
or maybe contemplate a fricassee.
No wonder I’m the avatar of fear,
that small boys taunt each other with my name.
We all know there’s just one way out of here,
but I’d as soon delay it, all the same.
Bugs, grit, and grain, I mean to have it all,
and if I have to borrow, steal, or beg,
I’ll live cage free although the sky may fall.
The egg’s in me as I am in the egg:
that way is immortality bestowed.
When I come to it, I will cross that road.