Now I Pray

Ashen face, wool hat bobbing,

the young boy’s eyes dart to me,

then up at the man pulling a rolling

suitcase, whose hand he holds,

then back at me. His legs move

as if without gravity. The man asks:

Do you know a church on this street

that serves free food? I want to say

I know. That the names of churches

on an Avenue called Americas roll

out of me. I want to tell you

it is temporary, their condition:

suitcase, darting eyes, seeking free

food at 9 pm in a big city on a school night.

I want to tell you I don’t for a moment

wonder if that is really the boy’s father

or uncle or legitimate caretaker — 

something in the handholding and

eyes, having watched too many

episodes of Law and Order. I want

to tell you I take them to a restaurant

and pay for a warm meal or empty

my wallet not worrying how

offensive that might be because

in the end hunger is hunger.

I want to tell you I call someone

who loves them — that there is someone — 

and say your guys are lost, can

you come? I want to tell you I sit

down on the sidewalk at the corner

of Waverly and pray — that all

passing by, anonymous shoes

marking the pavement, join

in a chorus of prayer humming

like cicadas in the Delta. I want to

tell you the boy and the man eat food

encircled by the warmth of bodies.

I want to turn the cold night into a feast.

I will tell you I am praying.