Thursday, April 14, 2016

Pig by Henri Cole


Poor patient pig—trying to keep his balance, 
that’s all, upright on a flatbed ahead of me,
somewhere between Pennsylvania and Ohio,
enjoying the wind, maybe, against the tufts of hair
on the tops of his ears, like a Stoic at the foot
of the gallows, or, with my eyes heavy and glazed 
from caffeine and driving, like a soul disembarking, 
its flesh probably bacon now tipping into split-
pea soup, or, more painful to me, like a man 
in his middle years struggling to remain
vital and honest while we’re all just floating 
around accidental-like on a breeze. 
What funny thoughts slide into the head, 
alone on the interstate with no place to be.

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