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.

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