was fickle meat--tasted like
chicken one night, the next like
poor man's lobster. He'd never admit
being reduced to eating coon,
to be called out of his name
and into that cartoon.
It's not surprising they could eat the mess
he made of their playground: They watched
the October hog gutted with grim fury,
a kind of love gone wrong, but oh
they adored each whiskery hock, each
TODAY IN SLATE
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