Pig

Pig
by Henri Cole

Poor patient pig -- trying to keep his balance,
that's all, upright on a flatbed ahead of me,
somewhere between Pennsylvania and Ohio,
enjoying the wind, maybe, agains the tufts of hair
on the tops of his ears, like a Stoic at the foot 
of the gallows, or, with my eyes heavy and glazed
from caffeine and driving, like a soul disembarking, 
its flesh probably bacon now tipping into split

pea soup, or, more painful to me, like a man
in his middle years struggling to remain 
vital and honest while we're all just floating
around accidental-like on a breeze.
What funny thoughts slide into the head,
alone on the interstate with no place to be.


From Touch: Poems by Henri Cole Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2011