chickens

your friend
luther worked in a
chicken
slaughterhouse
one summer.
he talked about
the electricity
that stunned
them silent,
the cutting
of the juggler
while the bird
still trembled
half alive,
hanging upside
down on a
wire.
the blood draining
in rivers
along the steel
gutters.
he talked about
how lunch was
free. chicken
all day,
anyway you liked
it. he dwelled
more on this,
than what happened
before and
after lunch,
staring into
his hands,
wondering if they
would ever
feel clean.