Someone is new in the building,
I can smell the bacon.
It is a feather teasing my nose.
Will they have coffee and toast?
Is there strawberry jam?

I can remember eating bacon,
crisp, salty crunches of meat
that I can no longer afford.
Get old, my friend,
live on disability and bacon is
a mere memory.

Sometimes I pretend
I am a vegetarian,
but I have no proper teeth
that will grind things
to my need.

There is a desiccated cantaloupe
sitting like a ****** queen
on the counter by the door,
calling to me - waiting for my
sharpest spoon to scoop
its insides hollow.
I play games with time...
stretching out the moments,
for once it is gone...

Being poor is an honor.
It is a state of grace.
Littlest things become
treasures to our day.

At the market I sigh in awe
of one mold-ridden tomato,
bruised and ruined, but at
a price I can almost afford.