right, I know, it sounds like fun. It’s not.
Somewhere in ag school there’s a course they teach
to poultry specialists on how to spot –
among a hundred nestlings newly hatched –
which ones are male, unable to lay eggs
for factory farms. They’re strictly out of luck.
Dazed, minutes old, on spindly legs,
they’re down the tubes. And no one gives a cluck.
Listen, if this seems strange – political
correctness gone around the bend – I had
a job once holding eggs up to a light.
Inside, they had to be identical.
Each time you make an omelet now, be glad
some guy like me prescreened your every bite.
2007 by Jared Carter
About the Author
a Midwesterner from Indiana. His poems and stories appear
online at Archipelago, Centrifugal Eye, The New Formalist,
Poetry X, and Valparaiso Poetry Review. His fourth book
of poems, Cross
this Bridge at a Walk, was published in 2006
Publications in Kentucky.