we call him the chicken-man
everyday, against the 78th street’s walls
against many imaginary enemies and memories
mumbling about and demanding
warning the moon to come closer and kiss his forehead
while sipping his free coffee from Burger Factory
his steady audience hardly notices anymore
the absence of his wings, the fakeness of his chicken sounds
and in spite of any noise, threat, smell, push, nip, nudge or call
to civilized citizenry, they come and listen
hey, the chicken-man is here!, come and listen, folks!
and laugh about
write about
shudder about
tell about
worry, wince, curse, berate and
walk away
just walk away
why not
he’s just another crazy street parrot
a Broadway relic, with a hoarse voice and scary smile
or, maybe, he’s a champion of dialogue with strangers
a fine observer of our perverse way of ignoring the moon
who should be closer to our forehead by now
its light, felt like a kiss of cosmic meaning...
could this be the chicken-man’s dialogue
with me
with you
with all the pedestrians
that never stop
never listen
even me
or you
never…
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