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PROSE POEM
Poetry From A Chicken Farm
A tale of unrendered fat
We regret to inform you that we have declined your poem. We had 349 entrants and cannot accept them all.
You weren’t in the top 50 but you were definitely one of the 349.
We chose the one punctuated with orange smudges of Cheeto dust. It rattled with raw, visceral truth, like the chicken bones his grandmother cast in the yard. The poem’s metaphors developed their strong aura through divination. The spirit of his boiled chicken spoke through his verse.
Your poem was a thin broth that needed a dash of pepper, salt, and maybe some dry mustard to create a stanza with rich sapidity.
You had too many sticky words; no doubt from excess marmalade on your toast.
We disdain adjectives like old and blue. They wobble and stain like red gelatin in a nursing home.
We were impressed by your use of wattles and hackles. However, your poem lacked properly rendered fat.
There is no way you could win the cash award and a year’s subscription to Poetry From A Chicken Farm.
No broth for you!
Author’s Note: Every now and then, I have the temerity to submit a poem to a publication that pays real money. I wait…
