A Little Rude

Roast pig turning on a spit –

there is, of course, no hope for it –
there hasn’t been for quite some time.
Whatever eager piglet ran to climb

upon his mama’s breast to suck a teat –
wherever he discovered means to eat –
that’s all gone now. Now he’s dinner.
Doesn’t seem like he’s the winner.

Watch the crackling skin get brown:
watch the juices trickle down.
Watch the piglet turn to food.
It really seems a little rude.

And yet, my dears, not in the least
are we immune: we are a feast
for many populaces: like bacteria –
for whom we are a cafeteria

of tasty prospects, opportunities
to lick now this, now sample these –
to serve up succulently cellular amounts
of us, ‘til they get fat, and bounce

into repasts that other hungry mites consume.
Endlessly omnivorous: there’s always room
for more in this Existence –
which relies upon its own persistence

in the hunting down and following
and mad insentient swallowing
of bits of its own self:
until there’s nothing on the shelf –

until there is no shelf.

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(I drew the pig & wrote the poem in June 2009; came upon both just now and oh, how they cried and oinked to be put into the limelight again! What could I do but succumb?)