Pig

I thought my brothers deserved it.
House of straw! House of wood!
When they came banging
on my good strong door,
I said No.

I thought Your fault, not mine;
I got myself a beer,
turned up the telly when
the squealing started.

But later that night
there were voices saying:
What sort of an animal are you?

And what about that wolf?

They said:
Maybe there’s more than one kind of wolf.
They said:
Maybe we summon our own wolves.

And the more I tried
to ignore them, the
louder they got until
I couldn’t stand it and

when I shut my eyes
to make them stop

I saw my wolf,
picking his way through the darkness,
stopping only to show
the moon his teeth,
and to sniff at the air for pig.

Gregory Heath

If you've any comments on this poem, Gregory Heath would be pleased to hear from you.