What the Piglet Can See

My little pink piglet
is quite dirty,
and smells a bit like a cigarette.

At the end of his stubby little snout
lie magical things
only his big round eyes can see,
the memories
that sink my heart like a ship.

He can see through the walls, to the wrinkly man outside
the little girl who is me wrapped around his side.

He can see the second-hand smoke
jump off her Granddad’s shirt,
wander across her face, up her nose
and down her throat.

He can see the memories,
of the man who drowned the night away,
with many cans of beer

I want to keep these memories;
this man is a man I love
and notably miss.