Old men, a few women,
in old coats, third-hand shoes,
struggle up the hill.
Nobody has a wrist-watch.
They only know nightfall,
when the priest arrives,
brandishing his side-door key
to St. Agnes Church Of The Poor.
There’s no guilt in charity,
not when the dumpsters
are low on most food groups,
and the wind’s as bitter
as a bride left at the altar.
So why not a basement
with table and mismatched chairs,
some white-haired angels
ladling soup into their bowls.
They’ve long forgotten
the “why” of their predicament.
“Why not” will have to do.
