Hunger on 92nd Street –
In 1981 I worked with the Plowshares 8 Support Committee in New York City, commuting an hour each way from New Jersey. Our office was in the basement of a church. Fragments of this poem were scratched on scrap paper, since I had given up writing, even in my journal, in favor of peace activism. I tweaked it years later when my activism switched to homelessness and serving dinner on a street corner every night in New Brunswick, NJ. Still not writing, though in 1988 I picked up my journal and have been faithful ever since. Anyway, this took poetic shape somewhere along the way, and I’ve tweaked it more. Don’t remember if I ever shared it on Facebook.
Hunger on 92nd Street
At the church where I work,
once a week someone makes soup
for the neighborhood.
People get canned goods
if they have references
if the hospital or some agency
says they’re hungry enough.
Women with unauthorized hunger
drag their world in plastic bags
down damp concrete steps
where we dread the ringing of the bell,
the tired expectant stares
as we empty pantry, collection basket, pockets.
When all is gone, we hold still
if we hear them coming.
For suited men on the subway
hunger is a billboard ad:
a child’s brown face with tears
says hunger happens somewhere else,
swollen Biafran Haitian Somali Nigerian bellies
you see on tv.
Not the old man in a raincoat
asleep on the subway grate
Not the kid on the church steps
waiting for the Wednesday soup man.
