The Charity Kitchen

The Charity Kitchen under the bridge opens soon,
I can smell the coffee in the shiny stainless urns.
and oatmeal, grits, sausage patties and eggs,
steaming warmly on the other side of the doors.

I have been here for hours, waiting patiently
for my one sure hot meal today!
As seven AM creeps closer and the sleepy sun
slowly climbs high enough to lighten the shadows.

Others concealed from me earlier by darkness
are revealed as hulking shadows of once proud men,
who now wait for a meal and a little something extra
for each person who enters the Charity Kitchen.

I am slowed by encroaching blindness.
Aided perhaps by a degree of stubbornness;
I come, I go, pretty much undisturbed by anyone.
If I am early, I eat! No option of laziness.

They like me here, I do not mind washing dishes,
scrubbing cook pots, and mopping floors.
If they see me before the morning rush,
I can enter by a side door, eat and go to work.

Sometimes  the Government leaves big cans of  cheese.
Why do I feel like a rat when I take sandwiches with me?
I console myself that I'll share with anyone who has a bottle;
wine, cheese and bread, sort of like communion.

Huddled in our sanctuary
we lean back against
the crumbling brick wall
and share our rich repast.