Roll in the hay

I know a pig named Fudd
a huge hairy lurching thing
with a snout like a can of beans
coarse thick hair like broom thistles
HUGE, just fat and slovenly
like a miracle Sunday afternoon
this wheezing, curious mound of pink fatness
is adored by all the women who see him
his feet slick with red-brown sludge
they love him and take photos
and gently stroke his hairy girth
with their delicate white hands
as he sleeps in piles of hay all
day long and rolls when the sunlight shifts
through the barn doors and fence slats
which is all I want to do
I dream of such things in office chairs and subway
cars and lines to the men’s room at ballgames
and if I did just sleep and eat
all day, lay on the ground, dirty, hairy
let myself go far out of shape
with wine and poor food and poetry for exercise
I would be called a slob, a bum, a do-nothing, a laughingstock, a pig
reviled, there would be no adoration
no pictures, no onlookers, and certainly
no young women with delicate white hands
to stroke my hair in the barn door sunlight
Fudd has no idea how good he has it
but then again, he may know damn well
as he rolls in the hay and watches
the women come with their cameras
grinning wide in the barn door sunlight

James H Duncan is a New York native and the editor of Hobo Camp Review. Being a lifelong student of the road, you’ll find him picking up non-credit courses in local dive bars, all-night cafes, and at train station platforms minding his own damn business. Apt, Zygote In My Coffee, Red Fez, and The Battered Suitcase, among others, have welcomed his poetry and fiction. More at http://jameshduncan.blogspot.com.

Poetry