Young Writers Society

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.