The money runs out,
the food too.
A call to Mom,
a $100 cheque on the way,
though I know it stretches her wallet.
I’ve already fasted two days
when the cheque arrives,
a walk to town from the university,
ninety minutes in sub-zero cold,
to be told that I must wait five business days
for the cheque to clear.
No money in the account to cover it.
The manager apologizes,
even hunger is no reason
to break bank policy.
A walk back to the dorm,
hammering my hands against
my thighs to maintain circulation.
Survey my supplies:
a bag of popcorn seeds and
a bit of ketchup left in a bottle.
Too ashamed to ask for help from my dorm mates.
And isn’t fasting a healthy practice?
A gnawing hunger,
but I lose myself in my schoolwork,
my grades unaffected,
perhaps even improved by my adversity.
Seven days, and then another
cold, cold walk to town,
with not even twenty-five cents
in my pocket to take a bus.
I buy my groceries,
take the warm bus home,
and when the food and money run out again,
I abandon my schoolmates,
abandon my studies,
hitchhike to Toronto,
and find some work.
It was many years later,
when my income made food plentiful
and a home comfortable,
that I understood those days
were some of the best times of my life,
when I owned nothing that couldn’t fit into a sports bag,
when I was hungry and lean,
when my dreams were large,
and all the world was in front of me.
