Hunger
Nathan Jeffries
I stand behind the counter
where young girls come
escorting the stink of the
last Downtown Express Bus
from Broadway to Golden
They come together:
always together
One wearing the Pink tank top
given by her mother to showcase
the walnut shells growing in front
of her pair of blonde tinted armpits
The other a battered gray ARMY
sweatshirt hiding the swollen
questions of why Daddy won’t hug
or kiss or tuck her in late at night
anymore
And always behind them the boy
twelve and forgettable
his tiny round face a painting
of red razor bites left from
weeding out the last flakes
of bleach that made up his
5 o’clock shadow
Always behind so that his
sweaty transfixed gaze could
molest every inch of the blonde’s
figure
And then turn to the other and say
“Why won’t you wear anything but
that ugly fucking sweatshirt.”
