The Wolf Looks In

Little pig, little pig, let me come in.
Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin!
Then I’ll huff and I’ll puff until…

I blow sheets of self-nailing plywood against the windows of every business in your town
I blow crowds of shoppers into a panicked mob
Blow until packaged meat evaporates from the supermarket freezer
I blow a hot wind of grief and a slow cold wind of fear
I breathe in doubt and blow out lies
I blow clouds of dust and loose paper down the dead streets

Isn’t it hard to be alone, little pig?

I blow lightly past the homes of the wealthy, but to you I’m a hurricane
I blow away a hundred jobs, a thousand jobs, your job
I blow bills through the mail slot day after day
I blow rent in your eyes like smoke, until you choke
and stagger into the street to dance the danse macabre
hand in paw with me at the head of a throng,
a krewe, a queue, a festival crowd.

Look, our shadows on the sidewalk like sunlight through Venetian blinds—
ribs for slats.

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