How I Got to the Shelter

HOW I GOT TO THE SHELTER

No, I didn't want to crawl in these tents.

I didn't want to open this street door.

Afraid of what I might find in myself?

You bet. Yet here I am on the eve

of St. Valentine's day, watching Karen

hand out Valentine cupcakes

at the shelter as the men came in.

29 degrees on the car thermometer

as we drove down. I was caught

by my own poems, two poets

whose mothers are on the streets,

and several encounters with Christ

we won't go into here. Trust me,

they happened.  Some say

I don't believe in anything

except miracles. Others maintain

the empirical is all I know.

The monk's book on the hassock

in front of me has home in the title.

These men have so little

that it's easy to share.

They build community sustaining

themselves through winter.

Solidarity is only needed in Hell.

We all became homeless the day

Adam stepped out of the garden.

Two steps. Twelve steps. 120 steps.

That story in Milton, Paradise Lost.

As soon as you duck under the rope

you're on your own.

Adam stops, turns around,

looks Raphael in the eye:

One question, he says.

How do angels make love?

Not for you to know, he says,

blushing. But it's easier

than air with air.

interpenetrating desire,

no elbows, no knees.

Light inter-penetrating light.

I don't go to the shelter

for the men, I go there

for me. I know

what many people

think of the poem.

I'm down with that, OK?

Cards on Valentine's Day.

I don't put any of that on the men.

I love the way they thanked Karen

for red frosting hearts on cupcakes.

But I don't use that word homeless.

At some point, since that day

Adam ducked under the rope

it's about all of us.

How's your love life?

Jim Bodeen

15 February 2017