If I had a pet chicken, I would pet its back and feel the down-soft feathers with the hollow quills and splines just under the surface, and the chicken would tremble underneath my hand. And then I would take the chicken to Portsmouth and set it free in the TCC Visual Arts Center gallery, where Anne S. Iott would paint it. Not a picture of it, it. And Bill Hennessey would chase the painted bird from room to room in the gallery. And when they both collapsed from exhaustion, the chicken would convulse and give birth to an eggplant. And it would be a magical eggplant, and Bill Hennessey would rub it and small cubes of cheese pierced with toothpicks would fall from the ceiling like a summer rain. At least that's what I hope would happen.