The cinnamon chicken slid off the car roof.
Gourmet exploding. Big messy boom.
Plate shards, scattered like shark teeth. Chicken shards, scattered like chicken. On the driveway. In the lawn.
And jeez: what a strange fate
for this lightly basted cinnamon flavored crispy yum yum child of God.
How’d you come up with this crispy yum yum title? Sounds like text from a Japanese tee-shirt. Really liked the fractured swing of this poem. Goodnight to crispy God children everywhere.