run the halfway house. the winos will be showered, fed, and then led back into infinite night. they talk quietly to one another, waiting, and by the time I have finished my 3rd cup of coffee some of them are in the park drunk already... eyes burning like a locomotives furnace, eyes flutter, a half spin, the man kneels and then falls. others just stand and stare as if already under the mortician's knowing smile.
and yet, some will rise from bright mists at dawn, cherubic and dew covered survivors of the night's storm. grim miracles who will share a bottle with a friend and then laugh at the kindness of good men.
between the burning furnace and the chill of the night hungry strangers are waiting. a new day begins. all is quiet.