In these depleted times
I find myself missing parmesan.
It’s unique, nutty, buttery accompaniment to pasta
makes sense to me somehow.
Then I wake myself up
with a slap round the face—
What an arrogant, entitled
first world problem,
when families in warzones huddle for warmth,
the only crumbling the ceilings of home,
the fabric of society settling
on their human pile.
How dare I want for something as facile as that
when families there,
have no cheese or pasta
or even the water to boil it.
[This is the Second Place Winner from our Spring 2024 Poetry Contest.]