Pork scratchings

She uses a baby brush too soft for him to feel;
his combing not enough to inspire her squeal.
Muddling their messages with clumsy trotters,
they text pink and blue I love you, press send
too soon, too often like a hieroglyphic of lust.

Climbing to the ark, they stagger two by two,
find Noah and wife at home with painted nails.
I’ll scratch your back, if you scratch mine he says,
but there’s no time for platitudes when counting
swine. They sense unscheduled drowning coming,

head straight over the cliff to face their demons.