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

 

 

 

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In honor of International Women’s Day, here is a bonus poem.

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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

 

 

 

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This Game the Product

The Dispensing

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(2019, Stephanie Foster)