Miniature Pig Poem

You hired a miniature pig to adjust your lamp
on a bedside table with crayon marks
from unknown kids,
and he was more diligent than expected,
given the pay and being on call 24/7.
Scrolling through dozens of ruined turrets
you can stay in for a paycheck a night,
you looked back on memorizing medicine
like a tobacconist writing a boring journal,
meant to give customers the impression
you sat around all day, a regular do-gooder,
planning little adventures for yourself,
comatose under the supposed bourgeois
freedom of gastronomy down the street.