We are on bikes when clouds roll low into our street
Cloaking our final minutes of autumn light
Hints of charcoal-charred meat blow in the breeze
Reminding us
We are late for dinner
We don’t care

Eyes and noses search for the smoke’s source
We pedal as fast as feet allow until
Parents, police officers, and firefighters scold us
Forbidden to go any farther
Closer to the blazing behemoth across the street.
Fierce red-yellow flames whip through windows,
Seizing the wide warehouse’s five floors.

Carson hears crying chickens
Squawking over crashing glass and sirens
Praying for relief from rushing water
But the chickens are already dead
Packaged for mass consumption

Friends abandon regular television programming
And gather before the bonfire building
Flames reducing it to fragile frames.
Conversation are cautious and concerned
Until Mr. Barlow asks:
Who’s bringing the marshmallows?

Let’s toast the stricken chickens
Reduced to ash that autumn night
Never fulfilling their ultimate mission
Yet giving their all
To the most bodacious barbecue
Our neighborhood has ever hosted

If you like this poem, The Christmas I Regret is also a personal memoir you might appreciate.

1 reply »

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s