Bob and the Pigs
A humid day
mosquito clouds swarm and separate
along the dirt road to the farm
pig pens hazed by black flies.
Bob (an old friend), said, “man,
you picked the wrong time of year
to come visit,” he chuckled.
Hogs grunt and squeal.
Slop-time - the air was turgid with
with the numberless notes of a stale miasma,
the splatter of slick gobs of muck.
He hands us smeared green buckets,
a yellowing deleterious stench reeks
from the semi-solid swill
that the hogs grow fat upon.
There are stains on baked-in stains here
corrugated into noxious layers.
At the back of the sties
there are heaps of sludge
a bilge even the swine could not consume.
Bob bends to his tasks whistling happily,
while I explain to my wife
that Bob used to work for the C.I.A.
I can see she is surprised and impressed.
“He got tired of that sh*t,” I add.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2020
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