HungerBy Jenni Pahl
The woman behind the counter at Krispy Kreme calls me sweetie.
Arms tattooed with bruises, her face is a mask.
She puts an extra donut in the bag
and touches my hand when I pay with a pile of quarters.
Outside, spastic balloons dance down Main Street.
The sky fills with the absence of birds.
Even the pigeons have stopped their begging.
I think if I put my ear to the ground I would hear a rumbling
as if the earth were aware of my hunger.
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