ON ALL THE DIFFERENT WAYS TO BE HUNGRY


by Michelle Awad

My front porch

might as well be

Heaven’s Gate, might

as well be a rain forest, 

might as well be

a coliseum, an alter,

a library.

A man

walks by

on the sidewalk,

I make eye contact,

and wave, he asks me,
if I have a few dollars

or some change, he
calls me 
ma’am, and

I say, no, I’m sorry.

The no is a lie.
The sorry is only
a 
half-lie, as sorries
often 
are, he waves and

continues on his way,

I notice his sport coat,

his dark-wash jeans,

he’s a little scruffy of

face, but otherwise 
he
does not look

to be wanting,
but 
what does that mean,

in the grand scheme

of things, I think.

I don’t look

like I cried myself

to sleep.