as we sit at a picnic
table
near the airport,
at a Popeye's chicken
establishment,
i ask her,will the world ever run out of chickens?
what?
she says,
as she cuts into a chicken
breast with
her plastic knife,
delicately as women
are prone to do
when cutting
into meat.
she has the four-inch square
of a napkin
on her lap.
what are you talking about?
she asks again.
chickens,
i tell her.
waving the drumstick
in my hand
to emphasize the question.
what would happen
if there were
no more chickens?
i wait until a plane passes
by overhead,
then continue on.
what would we eat,
that's cheap
and plentiful, and available
twenty-four seven
down the street,
plucked and cut up,
baked or
fried?
i don't know, she says.
do you want my
skin?
it's very crunchy. quite
spicy too.
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