there is
no beggar that isn’t starving for a feast
of the heart, of substance.
i beg at your doorstep, count the minutes i wait with bulging eyes.
your mother is by the television,
your sister gathers newspaper clippings,
and you, are you even home?
is your light on?
i can’t tell.
and if i beg for the love you give,
will it feel just as i’ve dreamed
or will it feel like complacency?
there’s dinner being cooked
and the steam rises to the ceiling.
my stomach growls,
but the door remains closed
and you do not come down the stairs.
i watch through the window,
are you even home?
do you even notice my shivering,
my eagerness?
would you even love the person i’ve become,
the beggar pleading at your door
to just give her substance, love?