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And So It Goes

Once, a long time ago, a hog farmer noticed a feather wafting on a breeze. “A gift from the gods,” he thought. It adhered itself onto his flag that was flapping wildly on the flagpole in the yard. The feather became one of the stars. He smiled at his good fortune, his liberty.

Then, after a particularly foul afternoon, the farmer found a matchstick. It was not quite aflame. He saw shadows of fire and impressions of destruction on its half-lit head. He picked it up and put it in his pocket. The shadow of fire was smothered. He never felt a thing.

Hogs run wild in the fields of Indiana. Farmers, maddened by squeals in the night, chase them twenty-four seven. They take turns: while one farmer sleeps, another one watches. They sign up for their mandatory duty in the town hall. A guard with a rifle presides within. No one asks why. He’s just there. Always has been.

The farmer wanted to have a pig roast. He hired the guard to shoot a pig. The farmer still had the match in his pocket, its head being possibly flammable, but he had no surface with which to light the match. He tried the thick air, but the humidity snuffed it. The pig, alas, rotted, and its carcass lay stinking for some time. The guard silently cursed the stupid farmer for wasting his bullet. The flag gladly waved its feather star.

And so it goes: the farmers are losing sleep over the wild pigs.

The guard, still muttering, went home to his wife and two children. He was greeted with peals of joyous laughter (not unlike the sounds of pigs) and besieged with hugs. His wife, a quiet woman who works nights, pulled a knife from the drawer and sharpened it. The turkey was carved moments later and served up on red plastic plates. His wife made love with him later that evening. “Such a strong man,” he heard her breathe into his ear as he fell asleep.

The farmer prayed to whomever sent him the feather to pardon his double sin of wasting the pig and squandering the bullet. He wrung his hands and lost plenty of sleep. On his fifth sleepless night, his wife pulled a knife from the drawer, sharpened it, and plunged it deep into his ribs. She twisted the knife for good measure. The poor farmer lost his breath while his wife slept soundly.

And so it goes: the guard feels a little bit better about his lot in life, and so does the farmer’s wife.

High on the widow’s flagpole is a flag with a feather for a star. She never noticed the feather. Thunder clapped around her as she chased a pig or two, and then, during a sudden storm, the flag dropped to the ground. The solid rain soaked it as the pigs muddied it. Her husband, deep within the earth, was grateful for his shower because the smell of rot was beginning to irritate him.

In the barn, a sow wept for her boar. It’s been days since she’s seen him, and the litter (God bless the little piglets) have been driving her crazy. She doesn’t know whether to kill him when he returns home or to kiss him hard on the snout. She is a beautiful sow, a talented sow. She thinks she may have to begin working nights.

The town hall sports a crisp, new flag, courtesy of the guard’s newfound generosity. It’s a big flag, full of stars. The guard was disappointed, however, because the flag was flaccid. He looked around and noticed all the trees swaying in the stiff breeze. “Why doesn’t the flag at least quiver,” he wondered. He was sorry he spent his money on such a lousy, overweight flag. A beer can whipped by him and dove into a street drain.

The farmer’s widow sat at her table eating green beans with salt and butter. She wasn’t concerned about her blood pressure nor her cholesterol. She felt suddenly vigorous. She groped her breasts. They seemed lighter, perkier. She laughed aloud and then wondered why.

And so it goes: the guard enjoyed her lightened, perkier breasts underneath the empty flagpole.

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These pages last updated 2008.02.24 by Ralph J. Murray.				Copyright 2008, 2007, 2006, 2005, 2004, 2003 The Burnt Possum Poets (Dan Easley, Jeremy Frey, Chad Gusler).