Eleven-thirty. The cook handed me an apron

and eyed the cellphone in my pocket.

"Hide that," he said.

Shrugging, I slipped it into my coat,

balling it into a corner of the stainless steel shelf.



Noon. Winter air skidded down the steps

and came to a flourishing halt in the

dining room as the door opened.

As "greeter" I sat there, grinning

at the neglected hair,

calloused skin and

wind-whipped jackets that

blew in with the snow.

"Welcome to Asbury Soup Kitchen! 

Happy holidays, and remember to sign in."

They scribble names and 

yell to Isabella for coffee.



Half past noon. A grey-haired,

red-skinned bundle of collected clothing

grabbed the pencil. I looked over

the dining room as he signed.

An unexpected hand on my cheek;

I gasped. "Cold, isn't it?"

said the bright-eyed bundle.

"Cold, yes," I told him,

breathless from surprise.



One forty-five. I was restless,

bouncing on the balls of my feet

as I watched them exit into the mix of snow

and rain outside. "Have a nice day."

The man in the baseball cap stopped:

"You have a lovely smile."

He pulled the door open,

letting in another sweep of wind

to curl around my ankles as I

sputtered a thanks.



Two o'clock. I retrieved my phone

and coat from the kitchen,

snatching a piece of bread 

from the cook on my way out.

Our troupe of high school volunteers

wandered out into the parking lot,

pretending not to see the man

on the bicycle, a bag of soda cans

balanced precariously on the handlebars.