Round and loud and proud and lacking eggs,
I march into the day—unfed, alert.
Leftover wine beside my bed, with meds,
I drank and tried to swallow last night’s hurt.

Inside my stride, the prickling silence feeds
Impatience with the present and my itch
For pushing with spring’s early sprouting seeds
In mutiny against life futureless.

What’s one more kind of war? And on which side?
A patriot and rebel are the same
When hunger strikes the stomach and the mind—
All emptiness, with no one there to blame.

As nature gives no reason, only will,
We eat endurance till we’ve had our fill.