Morning comes, we brush our face,

wipe our eyes, grab our case.

Out the door with stomachs dry,

squinting at the passerby.

Trudging feet. Shoulders back.

Fingers pressed to weightless sacks.

Dreaming dreams along the way,

thoughts to boost us through the day.

Skies of blue are what we dream-

cabbage, beans, and sour cream-

simple things to keep us fed,

far from hungry, far from dead.

-Amy Struthers