She Awoke On The First Day Of The Year Of The Pig Poem by Raj Dronamraju

She rubs her neck
Looks out the window at yesterday's landscape
Waits for the water to boil
And sticks a knife in last year's memories in case there is still life in them

The trough is empty and waiting to be filled
By talented homespun half-men whose form is rehearsed anecdote
And who don't live in a world of dirty hands

She yawns and holds the button down
Scrolling through tales on news sites of old ladies found many days after they died

Their last act was as convincing and conscious recluse
Her next will not be in the year of the pig
Learning to act less ashamed about being greedy

And to not act at all needy
Or in want of anything but the bare necessities
Whistling a tune and scrubbing the spuds
And letting appetite drive for the next 12 months