I told her she had to pay 

The rich lady on Bates Street in Cambridge 

Had told her it was a dollar a mile 

She was mad from the start but took the pledge for the hungry. 

She liked her garden though she probably never touched dirt. 

I had convinced her. I told her it’s a walkathon. 

 

On that 20 mile walk 

I ate an apple. Didn’t have to pay 

for it. When it got down to the core, I threw it in the dirt

so it could biodegrade. I learned that word on the bridge

we crossed. I wasn’t even that hungry 

but I had to walk another 5 miles. 

 

When I was on the eighteenth mile 

I saw the cameraman. Hammed it up like I couldn’t walk. 

Pretended I was faint and hungry. 

Made my friends hold me up. They should pay

me for this act. But I was just some kid from Cambridge 

who loved playing in the dirt

 

with worms. I liked getting dirty. 

I’d never thought about how long 20 miles

was. Some guy measured himself across the Mass. Ave. Bridge

and that was some long walk

to Boston. Never really thought about who paid

for food. I don’t remember being that hungry

 

except for the kind of food I wasn’t allowed to eat. I hungered

for Cap’n Crunch and fluffernutter. One time this boy made me eat dirt

I lifted my head. I told myself, Someday I’m gonna make you pay. 

I wonder if he’d walk all those miles

too. Does he still walk

through that park in Cambridge?

 

I went to that lady’s house in Cambridge

Told her I finished the Walk for Hunger. 

Not only that but I’d finished the entire 20-mile walk.

She scoffed at me like I was dirt.

She was ruffled: I only pledged a dollar. As if she didn’t know the miles

and for every mile she must pay.

 

I kicked the dirt of Cambridge on her walkway,

one times twenty equals twenty. It’s a dollar a mile.

She paid me in crumpled ones, won’t go hungry.