I awaken every morning hungry.
hungry for both knowledge and food. The stench of poverty fills my nose and I describe
every morning with one word: crude.
My stomach begins to rumble, but there will be no food cooked for me,
For my mother doesn’t return from her midnight rendezvous till about three.
Wearing yesterday’s clothes, I head on out to the school bus stop,
Eating a mustard sandwich while sipping on a stale pop.