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