Food is for sharing, for the hungry.
Meets the needs of the people.
Places at the table,
make more room,
pass the bowls around.
Food is for sharing. Bring your friends–
of course they can come over,
but they have to bring a dish themselves.
No money? Okay, then.
They can take this bread home to their five-seven-twelve siblings.
Take this pie to grandma.
Food is for the hungry. Stuff your belly,
keep it warm.
I made you some cider, hope you like it hot.
Small portions (by choice) makes sense only for those who’ve never gone hungry,
$30 for a mid-day snack,
I don’t care how hard it was to catch that fish.
Food is for the hungry.
Waste nothing, eat til you’re full.
Look at his table—fine china, exotic meats. Great. Hope he enjoys it.
We provided it for his table. Our work, our splintered, calloused hands,
We came poor and empty handed, desperate,
what if our kids get sick, our landlord angry?
We wanted a roof, a full fridge, a future.
Work as much for him as anyone, they’re all the same.
“Work harder. Sorry, profits are slim. Cut your hours. No bonuses this year.”
He thinks he worked for that sham of a meal?
Hands to paper, stomping through the factory–
What work is that? To make nothing but himself more money,
To make us make more money for him.
His hands bring pain, each finger a leech.
The grandiosity of his table built on the impoverishment of our own,
By our own hands, in our own desperation.
But food, sustenance, giver of life,
Food is for the hungry. For the sharing.
Gather round the table, and take more gravy.
Original poem by: the husband