Porkopolis

Animals are Passing From Our Lives

• It's wonderful how I jog
• on four honed-down ivory toes
• my massive buttocks slipping
• like oiled parts with each light step.
•  
• I'm to market. I can smell
• the sour, grooved block, I can smell
• the blade that opens the hole
• and the pudgy white fingers
•  
• that shake out the intestines
• like a hankie. In my dreams
• the snouts drool on the marble,
• suffering children, suffering flies,
•  
• suffering the consumers
• who won't meet their steady eyes
• for fear they could see. The boy
• who drives me along believes
•  
• that any moment I'll fall
• on my side and drum my toes
• like a typewriter or squeal
• and shit like a new housewife
•  
• discovering television,
• or that I'll turn like a beast
• cleverly to hook his teeth
• with my teeth. No. Not this pig.