Win McCarthy

Preyed upon Piggy, often alone, or in whatever way, windowless, not weaning. Pink picnic Piggy, easy prey, easy pay, low hanging.

Little friend in my vibrating pocket, remembered for me, told me so. How come, I know. Buzzing me then to buy, buying again. Little friend help me looking, my friends are people, people people, populating pictures prettily, posing proudly pictured, preening. The gridded parade, if elsewhere always, gives them names and sorts. So much richness, color there, I’d forgot myself alone, by my blanket, bedside, wondering now who’s this been feeding me.

Here, then, a stage setting for a lonely photograph. A clock made with a camera. Shuddering shutter, ticking, tocking, clocking picture by, all only, by each passing second, each only shuddering by.

But for which watcher, for whom?

(gun cocking sound)