The pig with the black feet is an insomniac.
Long ago kids left a mask in the yard filled
with leaves. Now the insomniac wears it –
leaning his head down, snuffing, it sticks
to his moist snout, and he’s Marlon Brando.
We find hidden, delicately stripped orange skins,
candy wrappers, and shredded letters
that name him, Albert. He’s like a Russian—
enormous, vulnerable, perhaps tragic—
a lover of darkness – snow-capped trashcans,
coal bins, ships’ holds, sinkholes. He wanders
in the nightwoods for days, sending back
sounds like the ripple of radio voices,
until it’s not Christmas, just one more day
and he hangs by his slick black feet, unzipped,
the warm wet release lipping his chin.
Never promiscuous in his affections
he understood being human, the chasm
between the classes, but never condescended,
even when he must have known he’d be eaten
with on paper plates.