On chicken

Chicken is a friend who came into my life. So waxy. I don't know where Chicken came from. The first time I saw Chicken was on my long term sexual companion's mother’s hearth. I was in love. Chicken was so precious. Chicken was so round. Chicken had such beautiful coloring. I told her that Chicken was special, and she nodded. The next week, whenever I was out, I would look for a chicken just like Chicken, but I could not find one. Easter came, and Easter went, and still I longed for Chicken.

On a spring visit, she brought a surprise: Chicken. Now Chicken was to stay with me. I wrapped my arms around Chicken and petted Chicken. Chicken didn’t move. But Chicken shined. I placed Chicken on the back of the toilet because my partner claimed that Chicken was not appropriate décor. I resented this. Chicken wasn’t décor. Chicken was Chicken and more than a candle. Maybe the bathroom wasn’t so bad after all. Chicken now had his own throne. Chicken was regal.

Chicken is still there. Chicken sits patiently and stares at the back of my head. Chicken greets me in the morning with that blank and endearing stare. Whenever my partner says, “I have something to tell you.” I invariably respond, “What have you done to Chicken!” He replies, “For god sakes, your fucking Chicken is okay.” And then I rest easy.