The Chickens and Humans on the Planet on Which the Devils as Predators Are

a poem by Roger B Rueda

To an outlandish, you’ll tell apart
which the chickens are
and the humans are.
Poke a chicken in the ribs
and it’ll twitter, it’ll yowl.
The other chickens
will cold-shoulder it,
relishing seeing the chicken
in pain and hearing
its misery, its grief.
They’ll even have the chicken.
Chickens are chickens.
Even if some chickens
have been turned to
humans by fate,
they’ll always
be chickens, weakling
and thoughtless,
despicable and facetious.
Yes, they are pets
(or livestock)
osculating the anus of their predator,
snickering and loving
the demise of other chickens,
their temperament
is less than that of the goldfish.
Humans succour anyone,
even chickens, even the goldfish:
Humans are humans – they
hold flairs and
the being of others dear.
Never do they cling to vulturine devils.