Of Hog Summers
for David Lieberman
Every summer my neighbor
with a hard hat, heart, and hide
trundles out his hippo Harley
to go hissing out on a fat hot breeze
He doesn’t know it
(or does he?)
but that is how pain
wheels itself out
seasonal
It is real
It is recurrent
It is a reminder of the flaw
built into the machine to preserve perfection
If we could delve into the granular caves
of the asphalt his wheels wheeze on
we might see in the crepuscular cracks
a twisty little thing we call sorrow
stretching its centimal length
knowing it owns the world
Copyright © 2026 by Ralph Nazareth. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 16, 2026, by the Academy of American Poets.
“I wrote the poem in response to a prompt from a friend who invited his son and me to write about pain. What were the circumstances that led him to choose this somber subject? What trap doors did it open in my psyche? Knowing him rather well—we’re old friends—and knowing myself as much as one can know oneself, I sense that the answer can take me far in speculation and empathetic feeling. Yet I feel that, rather than moving me toward a definitive understanding, the poem leaves me hanging in midair, not exactly ‘risking absurdity and death’ but certainly looking down in awe.”
—Ralph Nazareth
Ralph Nazareth
