hunger

hunger

the table 

with its crippled legs

wobbles this way 

and that 

with each 

hand grabbing, 

each spoon 

scraping across 

dirtied porcelain fields.

we are quiet,

lips glued shut

with the pretense of chewing. 

but my napkin 

is smeared, 

my tongue aching--

all this food, 

and I'm still hungry.