Most men have an off switch for the appetite at night,
a point at which the hunger says enough and that’s right,
the body sending signals up the chain to say,
we’re full now, we have what we need, good day,
I don’t receive those signals clearly, or at all,
my appetite is not subject to the reasonable call,
to quiet down when the reasonable hour is reached,
the hunger that never clocks out cannot be reached.
I’ve been eating since I woke at seven this morning wide,
the breakfast and the mid-morning and the lunch inside,
the afternoon’s two rounds and the dinner’s proper send,
and now at ten the refrigerator is the friend,
who never says I’ve seen you enough today,
the hunger that never clocks out doesn’t care what I weigh,
in the system’s reckoning of the need and the have,
the hunger that never clocks out is the staff.
The hunger that never clocks out, going home tonight,
the hunger that never clocks out at the edge of the light,
of the refrigerator at ten when the kitchen’s gone still,
the hunger that never clocks out wants to eat its fill,
the hunger that never clocks out on the clock or not,
the hunger that never clocks out is all I’ve got,
the appetite that doesn’t know the whistle from the bell,
the hunger that never clocks out, it serves me well.
I’ve made my peace with it, the hunger and the me,
we’ve been in this together for as long as I could see,
back through the years to the boy at the table who ate,
everything on the plate and asked for more at late,
as seven sharp when the dinner dishes cleared,
and the dessert hadn’t come yet and the hunger reared,
its patient and persistent head for the sweet,
the hunger that never clocks out lives in the eat.
The ten at night survey of the kitchen finds the cheese,
and the crackers and the cold cuts that I eat with ease,
of a man who’s been managing this hunger for the years,
the assembly of the late plate never interferes,
with the morning eating or the day’s accumulated weight,
of the appetite, I wake up hungry every day at eight,
and the hunger that never clocks out woke before me,
waiting at the kitchen counter, waiting to be free.
I’ve stopped being sorry about the hunger’s size,
the apology to no one in the bathroom’s early eyes,
when I’d look at myself and wonder if the food,
and the appetite were more than what I should,
have been born into, but I was born exactly right,
for the hunger that never clocks out through the night,
the food and the man and the appetite as three,
the hunger that never clocks out made me me.