Autumn,
1898
Pig pie was
always special to me, and Bug Bob, my
brother -- a porker pie was not uncommonly
found between us, shared grumpily, like
randy shots humping off the trough. Bob
was Bug.
In flying autumn
One napkin -- two pale faces
Pig drips -- slick-lipped smiles;
One heart -- two tongues
Licking the piggyback.
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