A full week’s acrid steam

Billows through my nostrils

Singeing at the hunger

Waning dismally within

–

The smallest morsel of today

Sets my stomach to a boil,

As its aftertaste stalks

Through the maze of my palate

–

My plate remains full

Piled high and off-balance,

Flavorless and spoiled

Growing cold and unwanted

–

It’s devoid of my desire:

The oversweet and erosive,

But a long-sought blessing

To a far-away hunger