What is this hunger that drives me,
that gnaws at my belly
and seeps from my pores.

Satisfaction is a banquet table
just down the hall,
the chafing dishes primed for a feast

delivered by harried chefs
from the sweltering kitchen 
toques awry,

aprons bloodied with abandoned thoughts,
flour stuck in doughy attempts
under their fingernails.

Eager to consume the multitude of courses
but undisciplined,
I gorge on bread.

Perhaps better to blow out the ambient candles
rather than be caught
filling up the paper with tripe,

to write in the dark so no one
can see me gossiping,
over-sharing,

see my blush,
my grimace,
my eyes gleaming with pride.

Perhaps in the dark,
no witnesses and no distractions,
a dish well-seasoned

entices me to wield the knife,
to drive home the point
of all that’s meaty.