He bears no gifts – not of genetics, not of friendship,
not of hope or happiness or hell or (sadly) kindness –
He is at most, only (and certainly at least) himself.

He carries the circumstance of his birth around
like a white mouse in a life-long lab with cats drawn
with black sharpies on the sterile white walls

He lifts nothing – not hand, not voice, not heart,
not breast or barbell or barber or (most probably) burn victim –
the effort is a symbol of God (the unprovable thing he refuses to believe)

Oh, somewhere pigs are oinking, grunting, twisting in the mud
diving down into their unappealing unappetizing un… human
food. He lifts his head, bearing the burden of a smile carried to fruition.

The pig, he does not care.