Diana Dinverno

Hunger in the Time of Covid

I walk beyond
my neighborhood
having memorized
every pavement crack,
try to sidestep

pause to admire
a garden planted
between sidewalk
and street, a profusion
of hollyhocks, black-eyed
Susan, phlox, a green bean
trellis, and near my feet
on a bit of straw, two
perfect foot-long zucchinis.

A hand-lettered sign
urges me to help myself.

I think of the possibilities,
look toward the house,
its front porch,
see no one to thank.

I cradle the zucchini
in the crook of my arm
like a hungry woman
exiting a boulangerie
with a warm baguette,

rush home,
bake bread,
take it for a walk,
leave it on a doorstep.