Chicken Truck

It’s 10:37 July 29th, thermometer about to shatter,
now 98 — the heat index, too abstract to grasp
on this oven rack of a day. I’m driving

two-lane GA 106, occasionally reaching 45 mph,
because I’m stuck behind a chicken truck. 32 rows
of cages stacked eight deep. The white-feathered broilers lay like

gobs of hot mayo tossed onto the rusted cage bottoms, and if
my wife were here, I would bet on which bird will next submerge in
the wave of frustration, and snap-peck its neighbor. An ammonia

cologne trails the truck, it’s strong enough to unearth the dead, then
rebury them in a single whoosh. But this is a “when life
gives you lemons…” moment, and it’s impossible to pass, visibility

choppy and curled back upon itself. Some birds have shat themselves, having lost all avian-esteem, and although “bird-brained”
is an insult, somehow they wear an expression that says

“we know where we’re headed.” I hate factory chicken but it’s
cheap protein, so I buy free-range birds, though my veterinarian
daughter says the term lacks legal substance. At least

their cage doors must be open. Making lemonade, I fall back
100 feet, just beyond the last brown gyre of stench,
and think about the shower awaiting at my destination.

Gary D. Grossman
Verse-Virtual, January 2024