In a ramshackle sow-pen, I nudge mud with my boot,

having designed the water, soil, pen, and even my pig self.


Beyond me, in paltry molds, bursts of my offspring—

these do not impress you, I know;

I've been a young boy many times now,

and even at the point of losing my hair,

I still toy with trucks and build deathtraps with blocks,

I jump illogically, I boo and hit,

sending marbles down small corridors

to knock aside human miniatures.


My pen is broad and the mud is rich—

this does not impress you; 

you're a pig, as well.


Like our young, we but note each other's hooves

and stamp as if boars.



- Ray Succre