How dare the poet
Stand in front of us and say
That she has a right
To sustain herself?
It is the job of the poet
Not to remain
But to lament.
Who will speak for us?
Who will release what we feel
But cannot express
If the poet spends all of her time
Asking for tools
And food?
If the poet asks for food
We will give it to her.
And then we will walk
Emotionless
Away from her
With our backs turned
And our ears closed
And maybe then
She will know what real hunger is
She will moan on stage and paper
Of the burning hunger in her soul
While her stomach sits full.
And we can all come back
Have a seat
And remember those times
When we, too, were hungry
