By: JJ Pandaflex

Ain’t no thing but a chicken wing

Crispy and brown

I go to town

For you a snack

For me a gateway

A rusty fence fecklessly flapping

Setting the day

Leading the charge

Soon giving way

To butter and lard

The average American eats 10,000 calories on Super Bowl Sunday

Man, what a day

The average Buffalo wing is near 100

It all adds up

And ends up

With cookies and pies

Going straight to my thighs

By: T Avery Bannenger

Breast wing thigh

Breast wing thigh

If only I

could fly as high

as the distant birds

in the distant sky

Why oh why

can’t I?

My giant oversized breast is why

But I’ll puff it up with pride

For pure deliciousness

I have inside

While with seditiousness

Away I ride

By: Giorgio Fitzsimmons

1

Ducks do like ducks do

They’re not like me and you

They eat mollusks and mud and goo

Stale bread, small lizards, and candy too

But they will not eat a shoe

Because they’re ducks

Not schmucks

Or goats, you cuckoo

2

Ducks do like we do

We eat everything too

Lasagna, lard, and goo

Plastic and lead, paint chips and glue

But still, not a shoe

Because that’s what goats do

Men are ducks

Not schmucks

3

Ducks and I 

We see eye to eye

We waddle 

We quack

Our minds and middles

Both one track

And despite all our dirty diving

Our endless scrappy surviving

And interminably wiggling tails

Neither of us fails

To escape from being

Among the wisely wryly seeing

Notwithstanding our protestations

Despite our relative stations

Us and the ducks

Are all just hopeless schmucks 

By: Jim Kudrik

Friday nights were leftovers

Saturdays were pizza

but Sundays…

Sundays were holidays

I don’t mean that literally

We were Catholic, true

And though we usually went to church

and my dad kept his church clothes on all day

because this was the one day not meant for working

we did not keep strict observance of the Sabbath

What we did do, though

almost religiously

was order from Chicken Holiday

Few things would fill me with as much excitement and anticipation

as the contents of that bucket

The chicken scalding hot

its oily juices a patient flood

ready at first bite to gush past salted crust

to ravenous adolescent mouth

The drumsticks and breasts both wondrously oversized

But that’s not all

Not even nearly

For the best part

by far

was the choice

Anything off the menu I wanted

Fries?

Nah, too greasy

Too soggy

Ribs?

Nah, too sloppy

Anyway that was my brother’s thing

There was only one other thing I wanted

its shell as crispy and fried as the chicken

and just as moist/white/firm inside

but oozy gooeyer

with a rich red broth of marinara

that glistened in its tiny plastic drum

Even now I can smell it

Taste it

Feel it

The anticipation, order placed

phone back on its cradle

its tangled chord dripping in a mozzarell-esque knot off the kitchen wall

as we sat through a second episode of Small Wonder

(Small Wonder indeed that, poorly written and acted as it was, it managed to grasp onto even that sad Sunday afternoon time slot)

Yes, that was it

For me it wasn’t about the chicken

Or the ritual of family comfort on the week’s last day

Or even the mozzarella sticks

It was the anticipation

And the deluge of satiety that followed

That was my chicken holiday

By: Dr. Deano

In the heart of Singapore's vibrant scene,  

An old man’s cane taps a rhythm, steady and keen.  

Chocolate in hand, dark and divine.

By the Merlion, where tourists dine.  

A curious chicken pecks nearby,  

Eyeing the chocolate with a hopeful eye.

A Sumatran tiger cub, stripes of bold,  

Watches from shadows, shy and cold.  

The old man smiles, and offers a piece,  

It’s here where tigers and chickens, alas, find a moment's peace.