The officer said, n******g, where's
the chicken? & started inspecting
the seats of my automobile before
I could say anything. It was another
one of those cold Chicago days & me
& Hattie were standing in the middle
of Wabash while the officer slapped
the Flyer seats with his straightening
club. I'll be the first to admit
my automobile has plush seats,
but not plush enough for a chicken
heist. Like I would stash a stolen
hen where I sit. Where I come from,
folks name their fowl
& talk about those birds like old
friends. I offered to pay a fine,
but the police officer-- his club
dangling from his wrist like an extra
arm-- wouldn't hear any of it.
He saw I had a money roll the size
of a teacup bulging my waistcoat
& he still kept searching.
I finally told him, "Mr. Officer,
please understand: no stolen chicken
ever pa**ed the portals of my face.
Those chickens see the gleam
in my eye & keep out of my way.