Prose Poem

It was the kind of hunger that only lived in abandoned movie scripts. In such cases the hero only ate in dreams. It was always a thick savory night, and the moon stirred around the mountain like it was a pot in a soup kitchen. The poorly realized cherry trees in full blossom cast enough light into the kitchen for the hero to gaze into an empty fridge. His soliloquy that ended with him shaking his fists at the ceiling was a surprise laugh.