It’s the end of the month and there’s no food in the house. |
End of the month, no food in the house, kids are pale and famished...and so it is that hunger, big as Army brigade, bellows marching to and fro loud like dire holler, hollowing wee cheeks with want, that pitiful indication of food-less. Little eyes train on my sympathy, burn like lasers into my heart forthright, supplanting my own gnawing hunger with winter blues, a season of sadness. All diversions are marshmallow soft, candlesticks crushed beneath boot heel, the exposure of the slight of hand. I recall when Mom sent me to the neighbor’s for a cup of sugar, yet now a helping of sweet white would fall short of our immediate need; that years ago borrowing sufficed for cake (or an apple, perhaps), yet now gut pang remains strong-armed urging, a Mafia Boss, a big kettledrum irking hammer, a flame beneath seat skin. If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride...yet what of beggars? Do they ride at all with any dignity by their mere existence? I am a smile at one door; humble with big toe in the sand at another, culling what I can with flattery and tuxedo manners. My face at the frontier of beseeching, yet my heart still at at home amid plaintive cries--those robin chicks desperate with craning necks. A horn of plenty--relatively speaking; a loaf of bread, a chunk of cheese, sauce with ground beef, frozen Stouffer’s ready for the microwave oven. A prospectus of kindness as neighbors share gladly, and we, contented, sleep sans dreams. 40 Lines Writer’s Cramp Winner 2-6-20 Required: —winter blues —an apple —a chunk of cheese —sauce with ground beef |