The color of hunger

The hues of grain vary:
White, most popularly,
Can also be red, brown,
Even black, for that which is
Forbidden, rare, expensive.

Yet the people we put in high chambers
Will ask what our color is when we are
In direst need: After a storm, or a massive fire,
After the earth’s shattering temblors
Have leveled our homes
And stores of grain with them.

They ask us slambook questions
Like, “what’s your color?”
When we come to them to do their jobs,
Which includes providing us with relief
From the miseries of nature’s disasters
And other people’s foolishness
On a grand scale.

The color of hunger
Is the color of the ruling party,
Whichever it is at any given time.

The color of hunger is the color
Of partisan politics gone rogue
And left uncurbed for too long.

The color of hunger
Has no place on the spectrum.
It has no place in our hearts
Or on our ballots, the ones
They all try to buy each time
The polls come
And they pretend to care
About our hunger
Or about how we fare.

The color of hunger
Is the color of the vomit,
The bile rising in my throat
As I listen to these askholes
Ask me what my color is
When I speak weakly
About my hunger.

One day, this will be
Their color too
And there won’t be anyone left
To ask them
What their true colors are.