The Homeless Shelter
Fluorescent lights hum like they’re tired of being awake,
Rows of cots lined up like headstones in a room that smells of bleach and yesterday’s mistakes.
A father’s hands are rough and worn, cracked knuckles gripping a cup of coffee gone cold,
His children sleep on donated sheets while the heater rattles stories nobody’s told.
She’s sitting on the edge of the cot, eyes fixed on the wall where paint curls like dead skin,
Counting ceiling tiles because it’s easier than counting all the ways the world won’t let her win.
The shelter’s noise is constant–coughing, crying, someone muttering prayers in the dark,
Every face in here carries the weight of a life that missed its mark.
The volunteers mean well, God knows they do, with their soup and their smiles and their “hang in there” lines,
The kid in the corner doesn’t need encouragement, he needs a bed that’s his, a door that’s his, a life that rhymes
With something other than eviction notices and food stamps and the look on his teacher’s face
When he shows up in the same shirt three days running, smelling like a place that has no grace.
Nobody’s sleeping, not really, just closing their eyes against the fluorescent hum,
Hoping the morning brings a phone call, a job lead, anything other than numb.
The shelter doors open at six, close at ten, and the hours in between
Are just survival dressed in donated clothes, the American dream gone gangrene.