They may be traded in Chicago, well in advance, but what about the hens themselves?
So here we are in a collection of poems with the first section titled Antique Menu, which came to me in a dream where I held a large menu printed in an ostentatious 19th typeface. The accompanying feeling was one of late afternoon sunshine in a café somewhere in a small town along an American byway – the kinds of places I’ve often lived in, in fact, as an adult.Or eaten eggs, one way or another.
No, I don’t try to replicate the Victorian typefaces, but the feeling’s there all the same.
These poems arise in chance encounters, random notes, and even a dream or two along that journey.
To see what’s being served, crack into CHICAGO EGGS.