Trouvée

Oh, why should a hen

have been run over

on West 4th Street

in the middle of summer?

She was a white hen

—red-and-white now, of course.

How did she get there?

Where was she going?

Her wing feathers spread

flat, flat in the tar,

all dirtied, and thin

as tissue paper.

A pigeon, yes,

or an English sparrow,

might meet such a fate,

but not that poor fowl.

Just now I went back

to look again.

I hadn't dreamed it:

there is a hen

turned into a quaint

old country saying

scribbled in chalk

(except for the beak).