Our daily search for satisfaction
joylessly repeated;
we fill ourselves to bursting, but
are never satiated.
Kink has replaced quality; we want apple-smoked
with jalepenos soaked in ranch
over breast of pullet
on a bun
with fries
to compensate
for that inscrutable something
from the farm: no farmer
runs his thick hands down the feathered
back before the hatchet,
or extends a pat
for the good pig's snout.
We grow larger,
like our portions,
not knowing that we test
each bite we taste
for the one who ran -- who had to be corralled
through muddy yards and guttered streets
mothers squealing at
this pink prisoner,
like a banner for his feces
being for one moment free,
the world filling his porcine eyes
with love and terror
to match his wonder
the same thing that we hunger for.

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