Hunger

The whisper of blood,
and the pleading of bone marrow.
The stretch of thin fingers, grey
towards crumbles of caramel biscuit, golden
sticky-toffee flavours, in mouth
moistening hope, in anticipatory dream
of the sugary aroma, cracks with teeth.

I wander the streets.
I gaze at stalls, deep eyed and sallow
like The Scream.

My wool coat squeaks when chewed.
The hope of a lardy nutrient.

I close my eyes and circle the rim of an imaginary plate,
glass bone, a bed for a warm shape to fill me.
Reality squirms in my lonely knotted guts as they weep and plot to kill me.

The whisper of blood, and the pleading of bone marrow.
I make a wish, and I wait.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.