When she came to pick me up
from my cousins’ house,
I didn’t want to leave. 
I was having fun, running
the locomotive in the model train set
my uncle had built,
picking kumquats and chasing
guinea hens in the yard. 
“Mommmmy, please!”   
We had to go, she said.   

I dragged to the car, behind
her clicking heels.  Slammed
my door.  Sliding behind the wheel,
she reached for the ignition.   

“You’re a pig,” I spat.  

Sitting back, she turned
toward me, met my eyes.

“If I’m a pig, then
Daddy’s a hog,
and he’ll have to root
in a garbage can
for our supper.”