the winged pig

it's just a dream
you tell yourself as you
sit up
startled
at 3 a.m.
just a horrible dream.
you at the pier,
the yacht sailing into
the sunset
with the one you love.
the two of them laughing.
him pink
with a tail,
those pointed ears
and mustache.
wings poking from his
fat back.
the joke is on you.
it's a nightmarish
brute
of subconscious
wounds and fears.
humiliation of the nth
degree.
how the mind gallops
over such
simple things as words,
as shapes,
objects, that by themselves
are laughable
simplistic things.