Pecking Disorder Poem by Hans Ostrom

The smallest chicken listened

again to the rooster, spikes

on his ankles, red gristle

below the throat. Again

the rooster seemed to be

throating things like

I'm a dictator, I'm boss,

a movie star am I, a

celebrity, a CEO, a pastor

of a mega-church, a

full professor, a senior

partner, a Wall Street

broker, a stand-up joker!

The rooster's crew then

came over to pick at

the smallest chicken,

who took it, and who

after they finished,

amused itself by picking

at the chicken-wire,



until, one night, a

hole appeared and a coyote

entered. In the morning,

the smallest and only

remaining chicken

picked its steps through

what bones were left

and feathers and blood,

gristle and spikes and

beaks. It walked through



the hole, proclaiming nothing,

and was picked up by

the soft hands of a god

from that place the smallest

chicken always thought

was a bigger chicken-house.


2014