There are some things that I keep writing about. I’m not exactly sure why; it just seems to work out that way. Pigs are animals that I return to again and again in my poetry, and so far I haven’t run out of things to say about them. Maybe it’s the way they look, or their reputation, or the sounds they make, or their eating habits, or any number of other things. It’s probably some combination of things. In any event, I enjoy writing about them. Here’s a pig poem: 
A Piglet
I’m a piglet, pink and stout.
If I’m cold, I sneeze and sniff.
If I have to blow my snout,
I take out my oinkerchief.
I got the idea for a poem in the parlor of a bed-and-breakfast inn that I was staying at in Connecticut. The inn was famous for its ham, and there were several hams hanging overhead. The room was also decorated with little pig statuettes. I happened to have a cold and had to take out my handkerchief to blow my nose. That’s when I put the whole business of the poem together. I substituted oink for hand in the word handkerchief, and worked backward from there. That’s really the whole secret of the poem. It wouldn’t have worked at all if I’d ended with the word handkerchief. It’s that little surprise at the end that does the trick.
For another poem about a pig I used the word oink as a pun, changing ointment to oinkment. I think it works just as well as oinkerchief, maybe even a bit better, because oinkment looks and sounds more like ointment than oinkerchief looks and sounds like handkerchief. I’ll leave it up to you to decide. Here’s the poem:
My Pig Put On a Bathing Suit
My pig put on a bathing suit
and headed for the shore,
then sat beneath the blazing sun
from ten till ten to four.
Of course it soon was sunburned,
all its tender skin was sore.
I covered it with oinkment…
my pig is sore no more.