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