Pig That He Was

I have heard, in my sleep, that
When you are impatient to go to the bathroom,
It means you were stuck in a breathless bardo the shape of a quail.
Such a place is just as likely to exist as
Mr. Johnson’s Bait-Shack,
Turned into firewood a few years back by an
Impatient constable with no sense of history.
So he blew it down, pig that he was,
And set about renewing his faith in the outer systems of delay,
The ones in which most inland minds find comfort.

When the story broke,
Cameramen screamed around his house and bought his breakfast-cereals for
Top dollar,
Never realizing that what they were paring down for consumption
Was their very loving selves,
Set to simmer in a baking sauce before any lids could crack them into waking,
Dreaming,
Seeming out of this refreshment and into some state in which
No noise is unsettling,
Because you can’t hear them or anything.
Set the timer and run for cover, they say, and do.
The corners leave up, away from heat, and blister back to growing with a
Furor.