an imaginary conversation with a slightly manic pig en route to the slaughterhouse.txt

Last weekend I went back to my parents’ house to watch my little brother graduate from high school. My sister Naomi, who is a creative writing teacher, gave me five minutes to write a seven-line poem containing the following ten words: ham, laugh smile, blister, rust, ancestor, legitimate, mournful, recollection, exhilaration, crucial.

To my recollection, he smiled:

My ancestors never had time to rust 

Before their backs blistered. 

We’re bred for it.  We play a crucial part. 

It’s a legitimate occupation, he squealed in exhiliration.

Although not so pleasant to watch.  

This is no time to mourn, laughed the future ham.