Umbrella’s lighter offshoot

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An Irish Chicken Avoids Her Death

by Robert Schechter

I think that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere beyond the yellow line;
Those that I flee I do not hate
Though they would wash me down with wine;
I hope they will not feel the loss,
Nor do I wish to leave them poor,
But when I found a road to cross
I knew that I could stay no more.
Nor rice, nor gravy bade my flight,
Nor barbecues, nor marinades,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove my fear of sharpened blades;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
It seemed a shame to die as meat,
And so I left the farm behind,
And that is why I crossed the street.

Robert Schechter has had poems and translations published in Light Quarterly, Anon, Evansville Review, Poetry East, among other journals.