Fabus Indulcet Fames

by Michaelw1two Worrisome ways is hunger’s wile, the body swoons as in the pot water boils; the idea stirs, steam fills the air, alas alone, in the water’s rip hunger rides; a pinch of salt, and nothing else, this mournful dish, a daily task seen to end; the dream is stirred, the lid is closed, the mind awash with thought’s taste of hunger’s grind; meal’s essence, now made of life’s dreams, catch the tired soul in visions of days long past; the spices, meats, and vegetables, that in lost times, so graced the watery brine; this aging hand again now stirs, the pot of water, salt, and broken down dreams; such emptiness, in empty hands, in this moment’s mourn, an elder’s teardrops fall; to this point, comes America, land now awash in exclusionary ways; there is nothing else left to share, except end of life, for each of profit’s slaves; yes, this picture so sorely fits, at fifty or so, the masses kneel and die; to this within this lands divide, those that have, are not charitable at all; they will to see the people cry, and those below them, crushed between hunger’s claws; this is no fallacy, all know, in each community, hunger’s lines go long; prices rise, and quality wanes, a pound of ground, equal to gallon of gas; these aged hands again now stir, the water’s boil, shakes and rattles the pot’s top; to add to this, again one dreams, a families meal, made for all in better times; tap water and salt, nothing else, the meal for each, who could not play profit’s game; only in America, no! this does exist, and further the numbers grow; each of US, know someone who falls, into the swirl of having to do without; so lend your mind to this extoll, make an effort, lend your helping hand to all; let no one around you suffer, be brave and more than equal to this great task; don’t wait for hunger’s face to creep, onto the narrowing paths you all now walk. Michael Darrell Walker