The Tunnel

This perpetual cylinder
whose jagged massive teeth
hook twice-splintered legs
paltry specimens
pluck-puckered and warm
rolls slowly for collaboration
up, over
gone in a trice.

And more, still more
skinny bodies conveyed
in flattened fashion
perspective reveals
an infinite distance;
The spitting hatch is but ten feet away.

Chicken armageddon.
I, in my stripy coveralls
small part to play
in this *Belsen* revival.

You though
efficient and dexterous
sloughing brown stains
each body a culture
a friend after friend.
This is creation.

Hushed tones - reverent:
The Tunnel beckons -
The roar undeafened
by a porthole door.

And my friend recounts
the wheelie-bins full of chicken heads
the occasional cheeky wink
slurried by the churn of steel.

I sat that night, stunned
enough to pick the meat
from my chicken legs
unstained as yet.