In a different story, the animals conspire
to become wolf by draping a cloak
over their hulk and growling at women
who pass on the street. Everyone is convinced
the pigs are human. A real man high, high up
in a skyscraper sees the three-pigged man, notices
the lovely pink peeking from the cloak, and hurries
to offer the piggybacked pigs a pair of bootstraps
to pull themselves up by; a corner office; a certificate
of self-worth signed by everyone in the land; a list
of everything they’re allowed to take, which is simply
a list of everything in the land, albeit one
with women’s names in bold and in one-point-larger font;
a Tinder profile seeking women in the area, which
is a conditional offering that, if refused,
renders all the other offerings void; a ticket
to a workshop on proper dick-pic protocol; a *spoiler*
on that workshop, which is that the answer is early, often,
and always; an offhand racist remark; a clap
on the back and a chortle to emphasize the remark
and its humor; a pair of New Balance sneakers;
a Tonka truck for their son; oodles of double standards
for their daughter; a dog because cats are pussies,
for pussies; another clap and chortle for obvious reasons;
a backstory with just enough disappointment
that they are certain they can’t possibly be privileged
and that privilege is a dirty, dirty lie; and, lastly,
a large pile of feed because they are just pigs, after all.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 22, Issue 4.
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