imaginary immigrants
sitting out back
in our adirondack chairs
a southern breeze
keeping the evening warmish
enjoying cocktails of our
own choosing
we watch planes land
from every which way
that one there
she points toward the east
at a multicolored fat-bellied bird
its landing gear already down
imagine if you will
all the passengers are a
bunch of little piggies
like from the fab four’s white album
all of them civilized and
speaking perfect english
okay yeah I say halfheartedly
I’ll bite on your silly premise
is it just me or is there not
a chance in hell
any of the little piggies
—even the ones
in their starched white shirts
will pass through customs
april two thousand twenty-five
copyright j matthew waters
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