Chicken

It was indeed almost impossible to convince the man that something was wrong with the way he had cooked the chicken. And that was why we left him there, why we left him alone in his kitchen, cooked chicken almost entirely un eaten, chicken getting cold and bait for the crows outside the open windows, long beams of light strewn about the kitchen and falling in pieces across the chicken.

He could have sat but didn’t.

The man didn’t know what to do. He simply didn’t know what to do. And so he sat there staring forward, or looking closely at the chicken, or watching time inch by while the chicken did little more, a whole chicken with its burnt feathers still attached.