ART

“The Shrunken Stomach”

by Michael Chowning

I am begging outside the twenty four hour diner

For a sliver of a leftover sandwich. 

My bones are so starved

Of necessity that their marrow

Caves in on itself like the roof

Of a collapsed cathedral.

Yes, the one I destroyed

On my knees, praying away

The promise of a community

That I could not contain.

Not the prayer I wanted, but the promise.

Now, ripping at the knees of any lonesome

Passerby until one, already full,

Offers me a meal, a key to the place,

A stake in the company. 

Blasphemy. The part of me 

Which would accept such an offer

Is buried under the tire of the car

Passing by the establishment. 

It is interesting to me the things

I deny myself in search of something

That I do not wish to find. 

A sunlit eye, two cushioned arms, a voice

Promising me exactly what I came for. 

I did not come for that. 

A gravedigger, I take to the shovel

Only for the eyes to put on my desk-

To look into each night 

Before going to sleep.

Give me the rotten piece of turkey

And tell me to come back tomorrow. 

I will. Despite the damage I cause-

The overturned sky, the collapsed roof,

The robbed graves-

I do not want what I desire. 

Oh, the difference in those words

Which you do not care to learn.

Nightly, I rip holes

In my bed sheets searching for 

A tunnel to the nearest bed. 

And yet, when offered a kingdom

That will crush charred bones 

Into my morning meal,

I can only return to the streetside-

Hoping for somebody to meet my eyes,

Nod, and walk away-

The keys to my hunger 

Hanging from their belt.