The Peckish Peccary

Craving the needle – adoration - he’s the mercurial protagonist of rubbish day. He shows up - to dump. It’s downhill from here. The old white rig, gears grinding, rife with putrefaction, picks up speed. Can’t be stopped, he snort-smirks in giddy glee. He’s under no obligation.

Half the townsfolk have steeped in anticipation for hours, many overnight. They sniff each other, longing to spin together as one in his vortex of validation. Amused by his churlish capers - placated by porcine promises. Relieved of thought. Balmed into submission.

Each new rubbish day he snorts, squeals, and whistles: harsher, louder. Color clashes nourish. Canned chant-gravy sates. Well fed, his fans bristle – devolve - symbiosis on steroids. Those with the least love him most, determined to take back what never was. Prepared to prey – to hunt today - believing his dictum, it’s a zero-sum game.

Pink chin in the mud, cloven hooves rake dejected dreams into his mouth. He scramble-gathers them up then recklessly hurls high hopes. Impossibilities. He sucks – then slash-grins - sweet syrup spittle runs down his jowls. Pulpit flies feast – along for the ride: gainers.

We collectively connect. Viscerally. Finally. I think. We’re gonna get what we deserve.