Watching a co-worker of mine
approach the candy machine,
licking his chops, while two sidekicks,
already there, appear to be
to a cornered shrinking violet,
memory of my previous job
(where a lout stuck his snout
in my affairs & made me
the butt of ridicule) swells
an old lump in my throat.
On the brink of heaving my lunch
at the pigs, a more therapeutic urge
curtails that: I'll grill hotdogs for dinner
& swill down a pint or two
while the wieners reach perfection—
just on the verge of char.
Ruth reads her "Swine":
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Ruth confesses: "In one of my past poetry work-shopping classes, the instructor brought in several poems for reading, and one was Elizabeth Bishop’s 'A Prodigal'. The poems were meant as inspiration for a class assignment, but once home, (and likely hungry, as the class started at 6:00 P.M. and I always had dinner after) I thought of "pigs" and then of "swine" and, thus, my poem evolved."
www.ruthsabathrosenthal.moonfruit.com, www.pw.org/content/ruth_sabath_rosenthal, www.poetryvlog.com/ruthsabathrosenthal.