I am not hungry,
but starving; this inner need (or want), a craving
for anything pure, authentic,
and nourishing.

A sandwich or salad, unlike
what I have known, or consumed.

Only after I am sufficiently sated
will I be able to do battle another day, or sleep
without these images interrupting this night.
It is dark.

Ego and emotion command
too much space and mind.

Am I yet another ambiguous miracle, or
just another carney hawking candy apples
and games of chance?
Step right up.

The midway is crammed. Lovers
hand-in-hand. A noisy crowd.

Turn off the music.
I can smell the horse shit between the trailers,
sawdust, and aftershave. I can only
taste warm beer.

I need greater nutrition. I suffer
for having paid my admission.

© 2018 j.g. lewis