There was cognac and cigars;
Black ties and snowy handkerchiefs peaking
Shyly over the puffed chests of
The mighty cockerels singing their
Dominion over the hen henhouse,
The sun, the sky, the seasons,
The world, the stars.
And after the pleasantries and the
Polite laughter, there came the pecks.
But it was okay.
We, the hens, had to put aside all
The pc sillines, because money
Was being auctioned to save children
And donkeys and probably some grannies
From terrible, sad loneliness.
This was our sacrifice.
Except that we didn’t sign for it.
Nor did we sign for the looks, the hands,
The touches, the slimy words that
Felt like vomit. It was scary at times
And mostly down right ugly, but it’s okay
If it’s for charity, apparently.
And the cockerels sang harder
And flapped their wings,
As, we, the hens, became snakes,
Slithering away, to the right,
To the left, wondering if the day
Would ever come when we feel safe
In our world that is supposed to be
Shared, but some have a bigger share than
The rest. And the night ended.
We, the hens, ran home to wash it away.
And we bathe and bathe.
Until the water got cold.
And we washed some more.