Bird Feed

My neighbors' got chickens, right in the middle of the city.
They have a coup that looks like a doll house on palm beach stilts.
The chickens move through the grassy backyard with speedy serpentine toes;
they seem happy, in their slaughter-past-due prime.
Like they know through hereditary trauma, they ought be
grateful and gay for every merciful urban living day.
Birds like that in the end are only good for stew,
but I guess if I had to eat an old person that would probably be the best way, too.