I'm a poet ******
That digs through the thrash
There's cans and slops
and graffiti
A pig rolling around happy in mud
I am
Who cares about vanity
Or inhibitions
When your eyes are big
The smiles wide
The teeth brown
The other side of midnight
On a empty bed
It is what it is
A leaf
Once green
Now fallen
Tumbles along
Sentences to death
Garbage here
Garbage there
Signatures on walls
Rhymes and reasons
Wee
We take this ride
I sequel
I squeal
Another can
A bottlecap
Should I a say a toothbrush
On a good day
My hooves take to the lawn
Pigs heaven one might say
Running in circles with words
An oink here
An oink there
A pig in a blanket
I really care
What's inside a hotdog
Logan Robertson
12/29/2018
To each it's own path up the mountain. At best is the fresh air and scenery. A blossom. A flight of a lone bird.