Chicken Run Boris


Everywhere is cold now.
No one can play in the fields any longer.
The circus left, the lions left, the horses left, the people left.

The children cook dinner for imaginary friends
and read the newspaper.
They wonder what would a chicken look like if it slept
in white linen pyjamas in a bed in Number 10;
what would it look like if they were invited
to comment on
the state of the nation,
the independence in Scotland,
the railway project.

If the Romanians and Bulgarians were to really invade, would the chicken have make up and lipstick on, and a smart haircut, and drink coffee with Jon Snow?
Would it ask for time out to talk the questions through with its deputy?

They share the plastic imaginary food and put the news on
to celebrate the end of yet another week.

Maria Stadnicka

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