The Man in the Soup Kitchen
I see them walk into the door,
They look stressed.
He shuffles across the floor,
Ill dressed,
For the weather and cold.
I've never met him before,
"Here would you like some warm soup to hold?"
"Yes, I would like that," he stutters,
And maybe, "could I have a little bit more?"
"Why yes of course," I look up at his face,
And see a glimmer of thanks,
before he again becomes shuttered.
He bows his head, and moves along.
At the end of the cafeteria hall,
One slurred voice begins a short song,
And who but the old man might it be,
Stands singing with the stubble of a few days,
I'd guess three.
He raises his voice,
Disturbing the peace,
A woman rushes in,
She whispers, "quick, calm him."
So I walk up to that stranger,
At the end of the hall,
He sees me approach,
And over his face falls a pall.
Maybe of fear, maybe regret,
But he knows nothing yet.
I did not come to chide or to scream,
Simply to ask if he might sit down,
I'm not what I seem.
And neither is he,
That little old man,
The one with the voice,
And soup in his hand.
One chance meeting,
That's all that it took,
So be nice to strangers,
For when you are forsook,
And no one will take you,
Not even your books.
Remember, the man that you helped,
Maybe last December.
One day he might help you,
The tables will turn,
Only though if you remember,
What you just learned.