Chicken BOne

Bruthy was riding the A Train
to Mr. Hemple’s house
when a fried-chicken eating man got on.
He reached his right hand
down to the grease bag—
pulled out aleg,
pulled out athigh,
pulled out abreast,
chewed the flesh,
tossed the BOne
over his shoulder blade.
Bruthy said in no time
the car turned to a
chickenBOnegraveyard.
The A Train stopped at 145,
doors opened w i d e,
Mr. Chicken BOne almost gone home.
Doors opened w i d e one last time,
time enough for old Chicken BOne to toss
his last chicken BOne
into the car.
Lick his fingers
before the train GOne passed him by.





About the Author:
Grace Maselli is at work on a collection of essays and poems. She studied for seven years in New York City at the Writers Studio founded by American poet and author Philip Schultz. Her work is forthcoming in September in 42 Magazine.