cup shaker

My soul is malnourished
sniffing out bread crumbs
begging on sidewalks
desperate for love
Some sick deficiency
Deep in my blood
Keeps me rav’nous
No matter
What goes in my maw
No kind of medic
Has rays that go deep enough
Probably genetic
There’s no cure to speak of
Tremb’ling inanition
On claw-handed beggar
Her tin cup
Shakes harder
With every contender
My heart is discouraged
Poor army of one
Cheerful recruiter
Of nothing and none
Handing out leaflets:
“I swear that I’m fun!”
Chased by loneliness
No matter
How far I run