Little Piggy

He knows,
or maybe
he doesn’t,
as I count
the words
until I run
out of
fingers,
so he can
start where
I left off
on my toes.
And I laugh
when he gets
to and
wiggles,
the last
little piggy
who ran off
to market,
to sell
all the rest
of his
brothers and
sisters and
“my thoughts
for a penny,”
he says.
And so I ask
“how is it,
that one
can like a face
so much
as they do,
and all
day long
only wish
to see it,
so it be
as a dream
come true?”

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