4/3/2014 - Chicken Leg
The roast dinner
is the main meal
of the pipe band,
a dish which holds
much practical value:
for they are never short
of trumpeters and flute players,
but drummers they long for
incessantly, and consequently
they offer a little culinary bribe
in the form of a chicken leg.
Damn this leash -
what’s the point in taking me for a walk
if you’re going to put me on a leash?
Oh, tie me against a post now?
This is damn near torture.
Don’t I have dog rights?
One of these days, I swear to Dog -
oh. Is that a chicken leg?
Oh. Let us have a bite,
just a nibble, ey? Come on.
I’ll be a good boy.
Do a roll? Sure!
Sit? No problamo!
Just toss that bit of meat my way,
go on, you know you want to -
what? What are you doing?
No! Don’t give it to the cat!
She doesn’t even like chicken!
Well, now we know where we stand.
You’ll regret this, let me tell you.
Chickengate, they’ll call it. Just you wait.
I’d always ask for the leg
at Christmas dinners, and my father
would duly bestow one upon me,
and then the same upon himself.
It was a wink of knowing between us,
a silent ritual invisible to my siblings
that confirmed my place as eldest.
Now I eat chicken legs slowly,
chewing with a purpose, mulling over
the pointless meaning that lie in meat
stuck between my teeth, a residue
that no amount of mouthwash
- Benjamin Campbell