Belly Draggers

Cast offs and orphans, sanctuary Saint Cathy invites us
to snuggle atop feather pillows and her overstuffed couch,

watch old Wagon Train reruns on a big screen television,
hum its theme song, “Roll Along,” in dreams as we sleep.

Let us lean into boar bristle brushes, itch thick dry skin
and groom rugged stiff coats of goth-like spiked hair,

leave us feeling as beautiful, unique, and elegant
as Veronica Lake swept swine—glamorous refugees at rest.

Proud, pink piglets, we march shoulder to shoulder,
dueling doppelgängers ever aware of arms reaching

out to hold us at ground level (though we’d prefer
to rollover for a back scratch or intense tummy rub).

Cathy smothers us in goodwill blankets that settle
like warm winter tents on our bodies twelve months a year;

days pass without number eating treasured snacks, seeking
main meals five minutes past, in the present or future,

rooting out truffles, delighting in their sexy smell, we
then cool salty, unpickled feet, wallow in mud puddles

that glaze our hides in an earthy fetid water mouse,
caked dirt cracking as it dries allowing wrinkles to breathe.

We count daily blessings—food and affection—as stomachs
enlarge, becoming baby-back bastions of endless appetite,

so, thank you Cathy, steadfast guardian—faithful companion,
our pig time together’s always well spent. We are family!