Coughing, he unlocks the iron-clad door, <br />and a flock of gold and silver keys <br />rises like an inverted pyramid <br />over his little kitchen for the poor. <br /> <br />The gnarly, the disabled, weak of knees, <br />the drunk, the ugly, stoned and plain stupid <br />stand in the s hit and shadows of his doves, <br />sobered by the wrath of a cold breeze. <br /> <br />Squinty-eyed himself, he is not blind <br />to avarice, nor to their push-and-shoves. <br />Holding a pipe in his yellow hand, <br />he touches with the fingers of his mind, <br />and watches those not even morning loves <br />enter and reenter the promised land.<br /><br />Leo Yankevich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/saint-francis-of-9th-avenue/
