The cold light of winter filters through dusty windows,
Mixes with the buzzing of fluorescent lights.
I hear the slow shuffle of frayed jackets rustling,
Half-broken chairs straining under the weight
Of half-broken men and women and children, chipped
Tabletops holding like Atlas a world of Styrofoam
Cups and plates, plastic forks and knives,
Warm meals consumed by frigid bodies, minds, souls.

There are places where hope settles like leaves
And where the rake is withheld.
What have I to provide beyond my embrace and my wealth?
By virtue of birth I may come and go, migrate or nest.
I grow weary and tried. A balmy sleep is mine to enjoy.
Pausing, I brace myself against the frozen wind
And, still shivering, go home.