A youngest child, the first little piggy
preferred poesy to shopping. Or so he said.
But when given the chance,
he'd charge and he'd charge until his skin
turned from pink to a carbony blue.
The second little piggy knew all too well
the dangers of the outside world
and instead chose to roam the land
of dot.com, shunning the sun
for months at a time, tending
his acne and keyboard with quiet aplomb,
while piggy three gnawed
at his beef and mayo sub, watching Oprah
lift the souls of housewives through the roof.
The saddest little piggy would have none of it.
An anorexic since eight, she sank
further into herself each day, her skin
slackening like a withered peach.
She wanted nothing to do with her brothers
and their acres of make-believe,
their television gods,
and their plans for e-commerce,
the stories they told themselves
of life at the far end of the heel.
Like the last little piggy,
a manic depressive who twitched
with buttery glee at the promise of a puddle,
she too wanted to run all the way home,
but knew such desire was foolish,
that there was never any leaving
this unwieldy slab of cartilage and bone,
that she was destined to spend
the rest of her days
chained to a row of smelly dreamers.