Slop
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