Cold Dawn at the Shelter

(For Alva Steffler)

Last Christmastide the angel came at six
fifteen. While volunteers began to poke
the guests awake, collect the mats, and fix
the coffee for the breakfast line, the smoke
rose from first cigarettes, and one large man
groaned off the floor, breath harsh, a map of beet-
red lines high on his cheeks”he strains but can
not bend enough to reach his feet.

The angel teaches art design, his hair
is gray, he’s fifty odd. Straightway he goes
down on his knees, does not recoil from hot
dry skin, begins to tug one of a pair
of stained white socks around those death-puffed toes
and nonchalantly smiles and says “fear not.”