This Game the Product (poem)
This Game the Product
he I dunno
true enough it seems not quite ay to raise it
not quite ay, okay? complain why don’t you just, you
no one cares these days
by the way, you know very well, very well
until they clap the cuffs on, how sore you’d like to see
like supposing, like (ya sicko) to imagine
there, the motherlode, load, lowed
we’ve seen enough of those
These
Pigs of intelligence
Each for himself, if he has the chance to bunk
One may be a social animal, but it helps, gaining
Even the influence of a bum, tented under tarping
On the median
His ranks crispier than yours, farm-fresh as you’re bred
Eye of rheumy red
You face your stalker, and it’s this
Your best advertisement, your fortune
You’re left to pray (as swine may) may win the eye of pity
Not peer with an air too bacony
The sparse white hair, the tender skin
Oh, the humanity again, the hand
Patting your head
Weighing the contemplation of a new pig-friend
Dreaming a little, of frying you in a pan
In honor of International Women’s Day, here is a bonus poem.
When I’m Not
Cutting slack
Shutting up
Open to excuses
Really talking at this moment
About your human weakness
In potential, yes, you might obsess less
Over a woman’s shoes
And try harder to wear them
Charmed by temper fits
Pleased to acquiesce
Willing to employ a loser
Really quite the witchy type
To bet it all on a magic future
In potential, yes, you might be Mr. Chrysalis
But let’s think instead of bootstraps
Put some oomph into it, maybe burst your straightjacket
This Game the Product
The Dispensing
(2019, Stephanie Foster)