PAD Challenge, Prompt #21: write about permission
Morning lay sleepily on
the corner of Ninth and Broad
the day it happened. Hardly
a soul was stirring, the streets
were mostly empty, showing off
faded stretches of pavement.
He waddled up to the curb,
looked both ways for any
flying cars or poultry trucks,
and calmly kept going like
an egg rolling off the counter
and onto the kitchen floor.
He didn’t need to ask anyone’s
permission, or cluck out his
position, or let the henhouse
know of his plans. He just wanted
to cross the street. And so
he took two little steps,
and two more, and two more,
and soon he reached the middle
of the road: but this time he
kept his henpecked wits about him,
looked both ways again, and kept
winging it over to The Other Side.
And then it happened: the lady
crossing the street clucked out a
scream and the cops finally noticed his
scrawny body and the grocery clerk
opening his shop for the day scrambled
into the street and snatched him up.
Poor little chicken.