Poem: At the Pig Races
If you were made to run around
a wood-chip track, where, at the end, in your barn,
a snack reward awaited,
would you run faster than you do?
Would you pause for a porcine moment to consider
to muse:
For what am I running to? Or, what am I running from?
When you win and have your meal
soft and cool and, one imagines, impossibly refreshing,
the relief, the exulting, lasts but a few hours and then
back in the pen
back on the track
back to the races,
until the day you sit down in place, like a stubborn dog who refuses to walk
another step.
