Floor Feast

A half-sandwich plucked from the grass,

dirt-speckled, its crust crumbling,

yet hunger claws at my insides,

desperate for something—anything—

that hints of flavor.

In that moment, I tasted

the choice between pride and necessity,

the crisp lettuce crinkled with the earth,

a bite of risk, the thrill of rebellion,

delivering secrets tangled in fibers,

while ants scurried by, indifferent.

Oh, how many times I’ve let pride

fall to the ground, only to eat it back up,

tasting the grit of life mixed with green,

every swallowed moment a reminder

that sometimes, we have to eat dirt

to know what it feels like to hunger.