Chicken

She can’t be beating me, I think. But the thoughts of late have been proven wrong, again and again, each time with an increasingly acrimonious sting. Sometimes I’ve got to accept defeat hands up. Fair and square is a saying I’ve heard since a child. In a Universe of non-Euclidean geometry, expanding and bubbling at alarming rates, shifting swamp-like unbeknownst to man, I doubt that anything is truly fair or square. Let the children racing who proclaim this fallacy melt in a worm-hole for the rest of time; if time even exists! For what is time but the crippled arm of space, wriggling about, grabbing at strips of chicken from a vest pocket.