Pig by Henri Cole

Pig

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.