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Baby Miss Piggy

 

Stares back at me, a sarcastic

Look in her cobalt eyes.

Her clothes look soft

But feel rigid, frozen in

Time along with the rest of her.

Rolling hay fields curve around the sides of her face

Like a halo, making her the

Angel she’s been told to be.

The other figures around her

Strike poses, showing off

The dexterity of their limbs, yet

Baby Miss Piggy sits there,

Trapped in her own body,

Reaching out towards the

Mother that left her here.

 

“C’mon Miss Piggy”, I say,

“We’re going home”.