a slender bone

it's not

the white bones,

the slender

sticks

of something eaten,

chicken perhaps,

on the back end

of this holiday,

alight in the early

sun

like a candle

by the curb,

that worries me.

it's everything else

that had to take place

to put it there.

the machinery

of the world,

the farms,

the land,

the hunger, the work,

the labor

of countless

souls,

plucking feathers,

and at last into 

someone's

greasy hand.