Scarcity

The stove is a cold and metal eye.

I’m standing here, waiting for the water to die—

no, to boil. I mean, to start at least.

It’s hard to imagine a Tuesday feast

in the middle of a pot of cheap wheat.

The water has a film, like the oil on a street

after a truck leaks. It’s thick and gray.

I’ve used every clean dish from yesterday

except this mug with the ring of brown tea.

I’m hungry, but mostly I just want to see

the surface break. I want it to get loud.

I’m a person, I think. I should be proud.