I found it in a pile of leather scraps—
a pigskin wallet with chewed-up edges,
just a bundle of skin. Perhaps, perhaps
the meaty Gordion knot that got it tossed
gave the donor-pig too small a voice—
maybe he's getting mudded in what passes
for swine paradise, angry that his choiceless
hand in my money-storing habits
(dollars here, plastic there, only gnaw the corners,
front pocket only, is that wallet kosher?)
was supplanted over such a minor qualm
as bacon by a southwest-themed cash clip,
a gift from considerate in-laws who ate his flesh
and didn't contemplate his greasy sacrifice.
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