The Big Bellies of the Starved
 
You get more sense from a rabid animal.
The big bellies of the starved are a dreadful
place.  Dreams don’t fly, don’t do
at all.  The well feed flex fingers across the way,
concert pianists, labors… quick as flash.  They walk down
the lane like handsome cowboys, hot vixens, lovely saints--
spark debates, laugh, scream— Oh what a day,
what a day…  It’s the prerogative of all who
cannot feel their death—giving rise to the next
morning is their strength and purpose.  
Within the starved is an empty place.
To step inside is to question survival.
There’s so much craft the half dead know, 
including how to die. They clutch wind like
Mozart the keys, gasp air like Pavarotti the sing,
cry like the dead for lost tomorrows and see no other way. 

© Coleen T. Houlihan