45 plumes in Super Chicken’s domain: 90 spats, 45 bibs, and 45 or so woolen-embroidered overlays. Monkey-grinder hats barely noticeable under phallic plumes— pornographically oversized. Electric socks. Heel-to-toe in the snow lips stuck frozen blue to chunks of frozen metal we all smell like some sort of grease, oil or 45-year-old green spit-goo. We are not cool we were never cool, we will never be cool. 5 spots in our socks for uniforms or long underwear and turtlenecks have no pockets and we share pepperoni pies or cheese pies or simple cheap pies and waitresses go mad for loss of tips. Chickens have no pockets but the one crazy man in all of my hometown stands on his red-plastic booth table with checkered tablecloth to tell us what fools we are and how we have disturbed his dinner at 10 thirty on a Friday night. Byawk he says he’s laid an egg he flaps out in cape and all in all a good night. We’ve won the fight in the parking lot but lost the game before and some are still proud.
