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.

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