hungry again. damn it.
it always finds me, this hunger, when i least demand it.
when i most desire to be full, i am emptied of substance.
when i am most desired by my life, i am least alive.
there is a whole pantheon of women, men, and gods
outside my room, and i want to be among them;
but hungry, but parched, worn down to this nub of nakedness,
i am hardly the stuff of herculean legend, for if i could lift my arm
and smite even a hobgoblin in a cabbage patch, i could pick that cabbage
and boil it for some sustenance; alas, even the paste-flavored cauliflower
that once disgusted my childish tongue would be to me a plate of kingly
lasagna if i could just get my hands around its bottom.
the cauliflower, the cabbage, the miserly lettuce ball that rots at the bottom
of the grocery store fridge, unwanted: these are the fruits of a dead man’s hunger;
these are the unfindable bounties we seek to discover
when we starve in the shadows of a city teeming with food.