Hunger

Our daily search for satisfaction
joylessly repeated;
we fill ourselves to bursting, but
are never satiated.
Kink has replaced quality; we want apple-smoked
bacon
with jalepenos soaked in ranch
over breast of pullet
on a bun
with fries
to compensate
for that inscrutable something
gone
from the farm: no farmer
runs his thick hands down the feathered
back before the hatchet,
or extends a pat
for the good pig's snout.
We grow larger,
like our portions,
not knowing that we test
each bite we taste
for the one who ran -- who had to be corralled
through muddy yards and guttered streets
mothers squealing at
this pink prisoner,
like a banner for his feces
being for one moment free,
the world filling his porcine eyes
with love and terror
to match his wonder
the same thing that we hunger for.

Newer Post Older Post Home