Grace Poem by Scott J. Shepard

The line outside the soup kitchen,
a chilling Monday's meal.
A few young scholars, a mother
and child, the usual flock and crew.

Albatross had circled the morning,
to await their savory odds.
The remnants of carrot cakes,
sloppy joes in meaty rows,
and the peas straight from their pod

Like artisan's they gathered their platters
with paint strokes of spaghetti sauce.
At the end table a surprise for later,
woolen hats or gritty cloths.

One by one they made their debut
as the chef snipped and clipped,
a grand ribbon's flutter to the floor.
With velvet rope, they nearly choked
a pythons slippery claw.

Amass the table tops, hand in hand,
a simple thanks for their meal.
A clenching grip squeezed and nipped
till the words poured out their ears.

As a lowly preacher of the street curbs
lead them through God's watch. I had seen
him before with his foot in the door
begging to remember of Paul.

We had spoken once ago of the rosary
he adored. In his darkest hour, his truest remorse,
his knees had touched the floor.

When I had asked how he did it, he looked
down for a minute, clenching the stones once more.
'Only in God's hands' he replied and smiled,
had his eyes ever felt so sore.

And as his prayer's neared, their savory
stare's made way toward veneer,
with their grubby palms to endure, Dear Lord,
did grace that day ever feel more than unsure.