a sestina that doesn't totally suck!

Chicken

At 10:00 the sky is full of feathers.
A train leaves Chicago at 60 MPH
heading west. In Washington, the President orders
fried chicken for dinner--he's eating late.
A boy sits in an apartment in St. Paul
playing a computer game against the Internet.

The evening sky is as big as the Internet.
The President imagines that the feathers
are still on his chicken. A storm heads for St. Paul,
winds gusting up to 40 MPH.
The boy reacts .14 seconds late
and gets fragged. The conductor orders

an emergency stop in Milwaukee; the President orders
an escalation in the War on Trains. On the Internet,
it never seems to get very late.
At 1:00, the boy respawns, thin feathers
of latency flickering around his online image. His St. Paul
body is oblivious to the hour.

The train has now been stranded for an hour.
In Washington, there's a mixup in the orders,
and the President launches a missile at St. Paul.
Meanwhile, all across the Internet,
a new fetish is springing up: chicks with feathers
instead of genitalia. The boy starts to think it's late

at 3:00, but he doesn't disconnect. Too late,
the President realizes where he's sent his 700 MPH
bird of death. The train starts off again, smooth as feathers,
and the crew brings round trays of free hors d'oeuvres
to placate the passengers. An anonymous Internet
figure, with an IP nowhere near St. Paul,

hacks the Pentagon and redirects the missile from St. Paul
to Washington. It can't change course so late
in flight, and explodes midair. Thank heavens for the Internet.
The train too arrives in St. Paul, over an hour late,
but there. A tired girl gets off and orders
a taxi to the boy's place. He thinks she feels like feathers.

The President orders a preemptive strike against the Internet
at 5:00. It's finally getting late here in St. Paul,
where feathers are falling at 120 MPH.