Jill Breckenridge

He’s 1200 pounds of pink pork covered by black bristles stiff enough to needle and sew with, Pretty Ricky, all six feet of him spread out, asleep, no fancy dancer, neither twirler nor prancer, just eats and sleeps, the biggest boar at the Fair, oblivious to gawkers, smirkers, cholesterol, or weight watchers, fat off the hoof, fat lying flat, good only for breeding and eating, he won’t even stand to show off all the pork cuts displayed on the poster behind him: ham, it says, from the butt, oldest meat of civilized man; kabobs from the shoulder, roasted on swords by early Asian nomads; spareribs, sausage, and bacon from the belly. Pretty Ricky urges me to swear off pork, but it’s lunchtime and my stomach wanders off to a foot-long or a brat with ‘kraut. I think twice, three times, waffle back and forth between meat and a veggie wrap, as, in front of me, many meals stretch out, dozing.