Beside the rainy hog shed, the county food bank
forklifts pallets of old bread, blue with deep mold
and tints of February. In our slickers with knives,
we slit packages of rancid buns, pre-made PB & J’s,
their special rot an Oregon green – and feed it all
to the pigs. We feed them fetid eggs, decayed
chickens also, but today is bread day. Farm folk
say pig manure is the only kind with a bad smell;
it’s the ammonia. We clean the pen with shovels,
push the slimy dreck to the slough. My colleague
and I, we scrape the floor till our filthy tools spark.