Meering Their Fate Poem by Terry Collett

Uncle said you can fed
the chickens and then

later you can choose
which one we have for

dinner tomorrow and he
went off to work someplace

leaving you to feed and fret
over which of the noisy hens

would meet their end by
Uncle’s hand and end up

as the Sunday roast sitting
among potatoes and parsnips

as each of the family widened
their eyes and licked their lips.

You walked up and down the
wire staring at each hen in turn

wondering which one deserved
to live or die but they all had that

chicken look that unconcerned air
of being and walking each one

settled on the next mouth feed
the next bite and so you wandered

off not knowing which hen would
meet their mortal fate that night.