where the writers are
The Third Pig


Anyone can smell it coming,


rank meaty breath and ticking claws.


Hindsight’s so enhanced prescience


you apprehend the end before


due credit’s claimed or blame assigned


to splinter groups as yet unnamed.


Warned, you make escape provisions,


hoard water and electric tape,


surf uninterrupted broadcasts,


test batteries and buy a gun.


Car alarm crescendos summon


first responders, rotors hammer


telegraphic reassurance—


got it got it got it got it


but something’s up, the anchorman


makes semaphores of frowns and grins


that contradict his scripted news,


agenda none but you discerns.


Each day’s a cautionary tale


you listen to, a child again,


mesmerized by Dad exclaiming


Wolf! to villagers once-bitten


into doubt, Chicken Little’s squawks


against the imminent collapse,


the mine canary whistling one


inquiring note into the dark,


then pausing to inhale, and wait.