Soul Hunger

My mother never fed us the song and dance
about starving children in China.
She’d serve up supper
and we’d have at it...
If not she took comfort
in knowing there would be
food for table tomorrow.

But one summer night
friends and cousins came
And the August air
Was heavy with the smell of roast pork
We sat ate laughed
and while the grown-ups
recalled and reminisced
we loaded our plates
with ribs redolent
of smoke and sauce
Outdoors we ran
while we feasted
children’s games

tag mother-may-I
pushing jostling
our grubby fingers clutching
the ribs as we savored them back to the bone
Just one more
and one small bite
was one bite too much
Pure satisfaction to fling
the meat laden bone
under the mulberry tree
to be found by my

mother next morning when
she walked the dogs.

(Photo: Al Clayton)