Biggs, OR

The man in Biggs, he works at a gas station,
a lone proclaimer of every vagabond tortoise.
His bigs are many,
his loves are dear.
His love is a deer.

The blood, he sings, a pop song into the pig's night,
a stop sign for every last blinking toad-friend
to hear. To sleep,
to sleep, perchance
to dream. Ham get.

The blood, he's a river, he's the man in Biggs,
the home-pickled watchdog of nature's buddies,
between the small,
between the big,
between the Biggs.