Chicken
He said I was
‘Pretty thick,
but that’s okay.’
I was twenty, 6’2,
a buck seventy.
He was my height
and three times wider
than me
(really!)
My pretty girlfriend’s
position was strictly
superficial.
Instructions were simple,
they’d watch,
she’d wear
whatever
they didn’t care,
they had wives already,
all six of them.
I’d wear
a wrestling singlet
that they’d provide,
though I don’t know
why.
Oh, and
Absolutely
No
Crying.
The big guy
said, ‘I hate
that shit.’
As if it
was an outcome
he’d come to
expect.
I saw him just once,
he didn’t appear
to recognize me.
By now, I was 190
and my face finally
required daily shaving.
Besides, he was busy
pointing at the deli case
demanding the dejected
girl in the visor
fill his bucket
with select cuts of
chicken.
About the artist
Joe Couture lives in rural Nova Scotia. He is the author of work published in Washington Square Review, Eunoia Review, The Rat’s Ass Review, Dark Winter Lit, and elsewhere.
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