Pig Iron is fascinated by

the paper-thin wafers of burnt

orange oxide that gather

barnacle-like between his

fingers and toes.

Fascinated, Pig thinks.

<delete> fascinated.

<insert> horrified.

He's tried sandscrapers,

short-chain polymers,

even the evil-smelling

X-Oil Medium™ to relieve

the discomfort, rubbing

the useless compounds

deep into his joints and crevices

with even, rhythmic strokes.

The comfort they promise is

gone in a strobe-flash.

The creeping, corrosive rot

makes him slow, sluggish;

he imagines himself growing

roots right there on his pedestal,

a resting place for crows

had there been any crows

left to rest.

Somewhere inside his shell

he studies pictures of other

shapes similar to himself,

the ones he imagines he can

sometimes glimpse through

the slotted doors of the cube.

Pig collates a mental catalog

as if each figure were a museum

piece. In Pig's directory, each form,

each walking statue,

represents a lost age,

a benchmark of the

descent of time. Each shape

is a shambling creature from

deep unknown strata,

each with a name like Pig's own,

that might resemble textures

from a decorator's chip book,

if decorators and books were

not all but gone.

And the names he imagines:

Gravelslate, Blue Clay,

Slagstone, Quartzlump, and so on.

Each have their own density,

some heavy and thick like

Pig Iron himself, others are

jittery supernovas ready

to fly apart at any moment

from their own lack of

specific gravity.

Pig feels the tremors within himself.

Him.

Self.

- - - - >