AT LEAST IT AIN’T CHICKEN

my cousin said

after a particularly bad

steak dinner at the corner restaurant.

My brother and I broke up,

Barry laughed so hard he began to hiccup,

his dark complexion turned to merlot.

Mom was not the finest cook,

but back in the fifties

we ate steak and chops, hamburgers and meatballs—

and Friday night chicken

boiled.

Has an artist ever depicted a boiled chicken?

One Thursday

mom ran into a sale on chicken

so good, she bought a dozen.

It was the August of our discontent.

Mom served chicken daily.

it got so bad I couldn’t face eggs in the morning.

Barry and I searched for coins

in the cushions, hoping

we might turn them into hot dogs at the deli.

On the first of September mom cooked

skirt steak, past recognition.

We chewed, and chewed, and chewed.

Mouth full,

Barry turned to me to say,

“At least it ain’t chicken.”

In PA poetic voices