Hunger

I was hungry.

My empty stomach grumbled in acetic discontent,

So through the kitchen, to the cupboard, searching I had went.

But what I saw on oaken doors, whose shelves were always stocked,

Was barren, stark depletion, and it faced me, and it mocked.

But luckily, those bags of air had crumbly, crunchy chips,

And when I sought those salty specks, delighted were mine lips.

I fixated on food remains, which echoed of the last

Voracious binge, nostalgic for that sweet, ambrosial past.