sometimes the pig pops his head up out of the mud,

slop and shit dripping from his snout.

then he drops low and rolls around, squirms and wiggles his ass

before he’s off and under the mud again.

sometimes a pig dances like a gentleman,

dressed best in breeches and powder blue waistcoat,

pinker skin and more pristine than the other suiters.

but that doesn’t mean the courtesan

would dance with him for a drink.

he offers a gallant arm to the corseted beauty,

extended with a bend at the elbow.

he presents an inclined bow at the hips to show respect.

and she still kicks him with her boot!

and pushes him away.

he has

no refinement,

no sophistication.

how much

finesse,

grace,

skill,

does it take to make his arms

look elegant and longer than his belly

or make his snort

sound like sweet nothings whispered.

a pig must be so much more in life.

the pig must be

the parent who goes to all the PTA meetings,

the driver who signals at lane changes,

the lover who makes coffee for everyone after they cum so they can enjoy their afterglow.

pigs must do all that

and still will not get half the respect

of the fool who just cut the line at the supermarket

because his wife is waiting in the Lexus

and he has to pick up his step kids

at a ball game.

he looks at me like i’ve got his

shit

all over me.

this doesn’t bother me, so I smile and nod--

because when the pigs dance, I dance too.