Ashen face, wool hat bobbing,



the young boy’s eyes dart to me,



then up at the man pulling a rolling



suitcase, whose hand he holds,



then back at me. His legs move



as if without gravity. The man asks:



Do you know a church on this street



that serves free food? I want to say



I know. That the names of churches



on an Avenue called Americas roll



out of me. I want to tell you



it is temporary, their condition:



suitcase, darting eyes, seeking free



food at 9 pm in a big city on a school night.



I want to tell you I don’t for a moment



wonder if that is really the boy’s father



or uncle or legitimate caretaker —



something in the handholding and



eyes, having watched too many



episodes of Law and Order. I want



to tell you I take them to a restaurant



and pay for a warm meal or empty



my wallet not worrying how



offensive that might be because



in the end hunger is hunger.



I want to tell you I call someone



who loves them — that there is someone —



and say your guys are lost, can



you come? I want to tell you I sit



down on the sidewalk at the corner



of Waverly and pray — that all



passing by, anonymous shoes



marking the pavement, join



in a chorus of prayer humming



like cicadas in the Delta. I want to



tell you the boy and the man eat food



encircled by the warmth of bodies.



I want to turn the cold night into a feast.



I will tell you I am praying.





