Pigs in Space

The new masters arrived in robust interstellar cannisters.
At least that is what our weakened visual cortexes
were able to determine after decades of abuse by LCD.

They brought audio decoders in smartphone disguise
to interpret our language, which devolved
into acronyms and ideograms over millennia—

an inelegant sound best described as a series
of symphonic grunts, and wet sniffles.
We had no similar means of verbal identification,

preferring to spend spare moments
creating memes of celebs du jour.
The visitors' superior linguistics put us at

an immediate disadvantage. They mistook trepidation,
raised hackles, as snorts for attention; cooed calm;
picked up perfumed cudgels; stroked bristles snout to tail.

They laughed, took our photos. Something to remember us by?
I turned to my piglet in panic,
whispered, "I ❤ U ∞ QT!"

She replied geometrically, "cu L8R mum,"
as improbable digits drew us to enormous chests,
squeezed tight.