Not an idea about the thing but the thing itself

Steam rises from a ceramic mug,

mimicking a ghost.

We know where the coffee is going,

not so much the day.

The clock face is a silent witness, 

ticking towards a future that refuses to reveal its hand.

“What’s time to a pig?” I heard my teacher say.

He was joking, but the joke’s on us.

The clock on the wall eats the seconds,

but the pig just eats.

Oh! To be a pig like when I was young! 

To have nothing to think about, to just eat in peace!

To exist as a heavy heartbeat in the shade,

knowing only the itch and the scratch!

Scratch that, I’m here with a plethora of sophisticated 

thoughts. 

Once it starts, no end to the poem, just cut it off 

like taffy, await the inevitable ooze.