PIG

Bradford Morrow

Never laggard, my pig is persistent and knows what she wants, what she wants is to eat. Burlap and tin, slop and jetsam, nothing in the pen to her is repugnant. The world is totally to her taste and yet she's a connoisseur. When the cock crows dawn-a delicious sound, that signal to gorge-she sets right to it, to her constant theme, her one- way song with that which surrounds her. All is edible and she feels quite famished, my epicure and democrat of the palate's desires. She passes over nothing in her hunger business as the landscape submits to her cylinder snout. Her boxspring tail coils and uncoils as she sniffs the day long-day might taste good!-and routs and rolls in the buffet mud, the refectory mud, the grocery mud, ruminating as she goes on what she likes to eat, and what she likes to eat is everything. Oh, swine gods who ride on your food-shaped clouds over orchard and chimney-which must look so yummy!-let nothing come between my pig and her meal. She's fat as a polka and supple as soap, and eats out of love for all that she meets. Should anything ever stand in her way, may my pig have the appetite to eat that obstacle, too.

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