New poem: "The Oink of the Lone Pork Loin"

 

The Oink of the Lone Pork Loin

 

“Who will hear the oink of the lone pork loin?”

It’s so far outside the box that to be pounded, tenderized,

and fried alone would truly be poetic irony; —

 

There was once a song in popular culture called “Little Boxes,”

the homes we occupy, our thoughts, dreams, and noble ambitions,

every “ticky-tacky” thing for you and me and everybody; —

 

But as I grew older, I grew wiser mastering the ancient art of Sufi

sausage making, and so thin did I become in my dying that my pants

no longer fit me; and I needed a bigger house to live in; —

 

Standing by the kitchen sink this morning, the four pork loin slices

unwrapped from their cellophane packaging, one slice of loin

stood out in its own see-through wrapper; —

 

I felt sorry for the lone pork loin, estranged forever from itself

and everything familiar, and turning to heaven, I sang in playful anger,

“Who will hear the oink of the lone pork loin?”