Big Pig

Big Pig


I sat amid a thousand faces
in an auditorium whose walls were
mirrors, and from whose deep blue ceiling hung
a green glass candelabrum whose
branches held a thousand low-watt bulbs.

On stage stood old Walt Whitman chanting his
Leaves of Grass. After every other
line or so he loudly sucked in air.
He seemed younger with each turning page
and with each turning page
he glowed a brighter pink
and the room grew slowly darker.

My companion - a small, slender woman
wearing big thick glasses with pink frames -
whispered: "That big old pig's consuming
all the oxygen in the room and
blowing out carbon dioxide, and
if we don't get out of here soon
we'll pass out."

So we staggered up the aisle and out
the door together, and we stood
together - a little older, a little wetter -
breathing deep amid a midnight drizzle.


Harvey Goldner