Hungry

I'm hungry.
Physically.
With no money.
Handouts may be an option, but there's pride, and then the judgment and bureaucracy.
Even if I could make groceries, I have nowhere to cook it.
No lights, behind on gas, or no roof.
The water is unclean, or off, but I'm thirsty.
I am not sure what to tell the children when they ask what's for dinner.
I'm frowned upon because of the way I'm perceived, for being poor and hungry.
I'm hungry.
I'm willing to work, but it doesn't seem like it is working out for me.
I've done what I was asked to do:
I'm educated, the vet who served his country, but came home and home knew me not, learned a trade and crafty and good in what I so.
I have drive to work, but, I'm either not qualified or too qualified. "Good luck with your future endeavors," they tell me.
I sigh.
That doesn't get me closer to where I see myself or my family being.
I, too, have goals and ideals, dreams of purpose swirling in my head.
So why am I hungry, if I've done and been what society said I should so?
I'm a fighter, no doubt, but has the hunger subsided, even though the physical hunger cries out?
I'm more hungry now, because I dream more for them than for me.
That's hunger.
And that's not to be pitied.