flies.

there are no starving babies on my block
sucking on air like the blue breeze is a warm bottle
no crows hovering for the final step
or flies sticking to the children’s breath
no matter how many times
i tear out pictures in a magazine
or weep at the somber scene on my television screen
then blog pictures for the world to see
i am not there.
my hunger struck early, too.
but it still left a residue
on the outsides of my cheeks.
the every day honey combs, reeked
the stink of urban black american poverty,
but still left crumbs for the feeding of roaches.