of pigs

Picking Straw

All of these years blown away
like calendar pages in a black and white
movie I saw once when I was little,
kind of hokey, I mean –
the years and blowing around like that –
and me in the wind all the time
and my fragile shelter leaning to leeward
and me leaning with it like a strawhouse pig
with The Tabernacle Choir of Wolves huffing
at the door, an empty fridge,
and thinking, sticks, I could have built with sticks,
been a nine to five pig with a long commute,
gone to a straw house for a 2 wk. smmr. rntl.,
been a regular boar, dreaming of brick.

- Ralph Murre