Morning at the Rescue Mission

The free clinic opens

at nine. The line wraps

around the building by 8:15,

full of rattle and huff,

shivering and clouded breath,

the whiff of bodies

more concerned with staying warm

than clean. Jimmy, who we call

Moose at his own insistence,

has new dollar store gloves,

Christmas green, one dangling flap

where his littlest left finger would've gone.

I wonder if he got those

here at the clinic,

or the Thursday lunch at Saint Luke's,

but I don't ask him yet. Maybe

once we've both had a chance

to thaw.

Nurse Nancy comes out first,

walks the line with an eye like an angel

turned drill sergeant. She picks a few off

to go in first, but none of us fight.

She's earned the right

to dispense mercy.

When she gets to me, she stops

to say good morning

and ask about the others

in my camp.

"Hard frost last night," she says.

"Yeah," I tell her. "And most of us

lost our heaters in the sweep."

The fire in her frown

warms me better than new socks.

I love Nurse Nancy

and tomorrow she'll be slinging stuffing

with the Episcopalians,

and no one

who does so much good

should have to be that sad,

so I tell her,

"You shoulda seen it though,

this morning. Looked like the elves had come through

and scattered powdered sugar on us all.

Like even when she's trying to freeze our toes off,

the earth is trying to be sweet."