Potbelly

Laying in it's own filth and murk
I toed the pig through the fence.
He issued a grunt, a sleepy rumble
And so I did it again and looked closer
At his dark scaliness with hairs popping out
Whiskers on his weathered desert skin.
I put my foot again on the place where the lines
Stretched and crossed gracefully
Sweeping into a bristly tail
And I pushed there once more...
He groaned again at my bothersome tease
and rolled sideways along the gate
He moved himself into a position where
I might not be able to get at the spot
I was playfully poking, but I found another...
He squirmed and growled at me a louder squeal
And I told him softly, "You," I said, "are an unfortunate looking pig."
To which he responded, his head turned to me
A watery pug and teeth curved like question marks,
Squinting at me his lament.
So I considered it and thought to leave him be
But crouched instead to put my hand through the bars
To pat his barrely side, and he laid back down and moaned...
And I thought, if he were beautiful
I would stroke him, caress his sweetness
And murmur to him his delight