(from a photo seen on Facebook)
The photos on the posted flyer
show a sturdy-looking man, youngish,
gnawing furiously on a bone, I guess,
incisors tearing the juicy flesh.
Furrowed brow on him, he looks angry.
Serious business this: this next one
will be the fortieth consecutive bird consumed,
and I consider being there,
at noon on the pier near the Walmart
to see him do it.
Might prove as therapeutic as the gym.
Uplifting as that Buddhist woman
and her several dozen books.
As significant as church.
At least as meaningful
as the hodgepodge on social media:
Someone’s sombre ruminations on life,
or the nuggets of simple wisdom
meant to buoy me when my seas get rough.
The thousand snapshots of home cooked food,
the welter of uninformed political buncombe.
And all those cats.
I’ll introduce myself, congratulate him.
Ask how he affords all those chickens.
And why he does it.
Is he lost, alone,
with a frightened, broken heart?
And would it help to get me through?
Up and out of bed with some purpose,
pinched neck and aching back and all.
The bed where someone used to be
who once did get me through,
who now depends on me.
He tells me I know already
why he does it.
He tells me to just start.
Go to the market and buy three birds
to practice on.
Have flyers printed up,
with pictures of me savouring the crispy,
fatty skin and juicy flesh.
“Come Watch Me Eat an Entire
Rotisserie Chicken!” I’ll proclaim,
(spelling “rotisserie” right this time)
hoping to God I won’t need forty
to begin to feel buoyed again,
despite my frightened, broken heart.
Yet suspecting it might take hundreds.
*original spelling
Born in Philadelphia in 1949, Frederick Andersen spent some years in the 9-5 world, intermittently acting and writing as well as painting. Now retired, he is married and living in southern New Jersey where he is focusing on several artistic endeavours.