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.

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