hungarian sundays

hungarian sundays

i drink my coffee black from the paper cups
under dim barlights.
there's a strange comfort to being alone
with your fogged self where nobody really knows you.

the professional photographer has his beer over mortality,
and on one side we parry unfairly,
and the musician, he has his cheap red wine & himself, which is not bad,
but seat-side i am with me. i don't want to know.

as a child, you always ask,
as a child, you are always hungry and you need to ask for sustenance,
and if you are lucky, someone will have kindness enough to feed you.

but sometimes, you just have to feed yourself,
or not eat a thing.