Ode to The Pig

Oh, Miss Piggy,
          I like the way your hair
catches on your ear
          when you karate chop.

I like how you always happen to walk in
          on a male guffaw,
then impale it
          with your four-inch stilettos.

It's satisfying to watch you
          cold-cock puppets,
smooth your satin
          evening dress, shimmy

your flocked shoulders,
          and then preen for a moment.
You're the Mae West of muppets.
          You dropped Kermit

like last season's hemline
          and threw yourself at Christopher Reeve,
swooning over his muscles
          and finagling duets

until the guest spot ended.
          But even Superman couldn't escape
your righteous rage.
          You struck his steel abs

to no effect, except
          that the shock of being repelled
set you vibrating
          like a stiff diving board.

When I was five they made you
          into a piggy bank.
Bad taste, I thought,
          especially the part where the coin

that should have dropped through a slot
          at the top of your head
was slipped between
          your porcine breasts.

How could they miss
          you stunningly
transparent motivation,
          not wealth, but adoration?

To do its work, glamor
          must be impervious
and empty.
          So, Miss Piggy,

bat your black lashes,
          plunge that neckline,
pat your string of pearls.
          Plush temptress, vamp

your breathy tautologies.
          Pig, I wish you baubles and boas,
backless gowns and chiffon
         babydolls, diamond tiaras

and, yes, animal prints
          because fuck 'em, and besides,
who else could be so violent,
          so exquisite, but you,
yes, you, yes, moi.