Picapollo Poem by Juan dicent

On Sundays, not much money
I eat at a chicken place.
People wait in line for hours
to have it fried or baked.

Chicken parts everywhere,
The napkins are chicken feathers,
Bathroom's liquid soap
is made from chicken blood.

Women selling chicken are fat,
Mostly pregnant,
With faces of sweat under red hats
That look like chicken crests.

Must not smell chicken.
Must not taste chicken.
Must not chew chicken.
Must swallow it whole, like a snake.

If you look around, everyone is hungry.
If you look around, everyone is ugly.
If you look around, everyone is broken.
But if you look outside, there's a red wheel barrow.