Good Luck

It was just one of those

single odd moments in

a pack-rat-full garage night

of moments.

An old man in the homeless shelter

was describing in great joy

the sensation of gaffing

a seventy-three pound

king salmon,

back in the day, before

everything

else

got away

from him.

We all murmured

quiet admiration

for his grand achievement,

and then quietly thought

what might have brought him low.

And then

another patron

stood behind the Great Fisherman

and rubbed his buzzed-cut head

with great enthusiasm.

"For luck!" he proclaimed.

The room laughed.

"You got the wrong guy,"

the Great Fisherman exclaimed.

We laughed again. But we all felt the pain.

David's got me covered

David could barely keep his eyes open. "Maybe just a little. . . tipsy." So he said. Maybe.

We talked for awhile, about nothing in particular. He likes his place in the shelter, after so many years sleeping outside.

"Are you okay?" he suddenly asked me.

"What do you mean?"

"You got a place tonight?"

"Oh yeah. I'm good." I think about my warm bed, surrounded by various comforts.

"Because, if you needed a place, I'd find you a room or something," David assured me. "We have to take care of each other. We're all family here." He waved his arm around the TV room.

Indeed.

I've been talking to homeless people steadily for twenty eight years now. As far as I can remember, this is the first time I was offered accomodations for the night. It was the sweetest moment ever.