"I don't know how many hungers there are ..."

—Kim Addonizio's, "The Numbers"

All day I've been reading poems about
unfinished conversations,
unanswered prayers,
a woman fed up with how
people die so horribly and live
without ever finding lasting love,
and in the middle, there's this amazing image —
pies spinning in the glass refrigerator case
of a restaurant, long after it's closed.

The diner heaven of Astoria, Queens
where I was raised,
was a haven for those brightly-lit,
spinning showrooms —
blueberry, rhubarb and apple pies,
foot-high strawberry shortcake,
Devil's Tower chocolate,
cheesecakes topped with cherry glaze,
Eclairs chubby as newborns,
ruby and emerald cubed Jellos.
So many magnificent choices —
a jewel case for desire.

Wouldn't it be grand
if love could be like that,
where the only trouble —
the only one —
is which sweet thing to pick?

And yet,
whether you're the type
who savors or the type who gobbles,
it all ends up devoured, disappeared, gone.
What you're left with is
"can't-believe-I-ate-the-whole-thing" guilt
and heartburn, which pass,
but those love handles,
those extra dollops of cream on your hips,
Baby, let me tell you,
those will last your whole life.