Whitout A Home Poem by michele kostelnik

It was cold one late December night.
Constance walked to the shelter.
She held a large tapestry bag tightly
in her old hands.
A man in cashmere handed her money.
Buying coffee may make her late to get a bed.
Her feet grew tired and sore.
There it was in the distance, The Providence Inn.
The lights were going off.
She ran like a child.
The man held the door open.
A blizzard is starting.
Do you have a bed left?
He took off her wet coat and put it
on a heat vent.
We do have a cart near the back.
She sat in dim light as she took off
her boots.
She laid down on her bag to keep it safe.
Jazz played softly and reminded her of
years passed.
Thank God she made it inside this night
as there were many times she did not.
Sleep came quickly.