Soup Kitchen Poet

Hoochie Sobers Up Long Enough

To Read His Poems at the Soup Kitchen

Julie Buffaloe-Yoder

He’s an ornery devil,

hard scaly and covered

with brown liver spots.

There are bits of sticks

curling up like horns

in his slick white hair.

.

He shuffles to the podium

in a faded plaid red coat,

takes the last three puffs

on a Lucky Strike,

then puts out the fire

with the tips of his fingers.

.

He burps, scratches,

clears his phlegmy throat.

.

His stink has created a wave

that washes across the room

and smells like Thunderbird,

rotten onions, dried up piss

.

and wet dogs sleeping

in cardboard boxes

under rusty city bridges.

.

He has never worked

an honest day in his life.

If you put bread in his hand,

he will not thank you.

If you give him a dollar,

he will drink it.

.

But when Hoochie reads,

prayers fly on gold wings,

angels sigh, a boulder rolls

away from an empty tomb.

.

Trumpets sound.

Mysteries unseal.

Saved souls gather

by a shimmering river.

.

Love comes down

at Christmas time.

.

We sit in silence

and listen to the light

of a soup kitchen star

who gives us his gifts

then stumbles back

into the vacant night.

.

We are reminded

that beauty is not

reserved

for pretty poets

.

and grace is not

a privilege

just for saints.

.