Hungry

My stomach twists and contracts, shouting unusual commands to the rest of the bus passengers. A woman that looks like she could be anyone's mother gives me a polite smile. I smile back, sweating, cursing her for acknowledging my situation. Does anyone have a bagel? I lean foreward--almost to stretch out my stomach. I can feel the inner walls of it being sucked together. I gather a ball of spit in my mouth and swallow. There, that should keep you satisfied for a while. My stomach sends another loud declaration to the rest of the bus. I look outside for distraction. Benny's Bagels. Star Foods. Inboden's Meat Market. Pike's Garden. Does anyone have a candy bar? I feel weak all over, the floor of the bus is looking mighty comfortable. Does anyone have a Coke? I sift through my backpack one more time, searching for a lost stick of gum, or even a flavored tube of chapstick. Does anyone have a granola bar? We pass by a McDonalds, and the bus is consumed by the warm smell of...McDonalds. Does anyone have some extra fries? I slouch down in my seat and close my eyes. I think of my mom's house, and how the pasta would already be waiting, steaming, on the table. Now I am alone, a person with a full stomach would call it independent. My stop. I jog across the street to the drug store and buy a king size Snickers.

i'm always hungry.<br>i lust for something more.

Funny, whenever I see this word, my stomach begins to feel empty. Linguistically, an everlasting self-fulfilling prophecy....

He looked at me real hard. He laughed. Short. They want what you got but they don´t wand you. They want what I got only it ain´t mine. That´s what makes ´em so hungry for me when I sing. They getting the flavor of something but they ain´t getting the thing itself. They like a pack of hound dogs trying to gobble up a scent.
You talking ´bout your fans?
Right. Right. He says.

It is good to be hungry, especially hungry for Hungarian goolosh.

When hungry you eat,
when thirsty you drink,
when tired you sleep,
when unhappy you..