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WHISTLING SHADE |
From the farm where he plowed the sorghum fields my brother
brought me the runt of the litter piglet in his shirt pocket like a rubber toy
a wad of pink gum I copycatted Fern naming it Wilbur who slept in a shoebox
in the oven door open temperature set low as if for bread to rise he drank milk
from a baby bottle the barrel of his body grew like a zucchini then torpedo
his hooves tic-tacked like a tap dancer on the linoleum of our kitchen floor
until my mother demanded that Wilbur Two move out my father built a pen
where I'd slop Wilbur with food scraps from a garbage bin of restaurant
leftovers a cruddy gush of wet crusts rice apple parings brown banana peels
eggs yolks even burned bacon he wasn't a fussy eater he liked his back
scratched with a rough stick he was smart and patient like a good man
he wasn't anyone's pot roast he stood for hours loyally staring at the spot
where he knew I'd come carrying his silver buckets of water and food
when I appeared his squeals were shrill as a party of girls on a rollercoaster.