You can only take one of this,
one of that. The toddler outside in the short-shirt sleeve
shirt, with no adult watching his back, you told him
get inside before he gets frozen. Black folks holding

overstuffing bags of whatever they can get
just to tide them over till next month. It’s your very first
time. You shamelessly recognize the woman from the poetry
group in the library. They give you a number. You’re

83. So, you sit patiently, knowing it’s one less thing
you’ll have to steal. This is what it is, when you’ve nothing
left and they’re willing to give at the church
in your neighborhood. But you’re so willing to go

on this day. So, you pack in overstuffed bags
some cans and of this and of that. And you’re thankful,
even glad, that your refrigerator won’t be
so empty. But still when you get home you turn

to the bottle, like a baby whose mother’s on crack,
just to drink out of an empty ******. Can’t believe you sunk
as low as this. Someone smells just like ****. Probably
haven’t seen soap since they’ve shut off his water.