You've heard how
charity
is the pure love of Christ?

Well, here I am,
and there ain't no love
in this December soup kitchen.
What there is
is me, ten busy saints,
a lack of soup,
soup pots spilling on the floor,
the chill of an open door,
accusations, and bread.

I am composing mock lyrics
around these themes,
to the carols of our three-part quartet,
when they command me to be the hero
and find more soup.

I storm out of the kitchen,
throw on a coat, gloves, scarf,
and meet, on the way out,
a man, on the way in,
with snow on his beard,
with red ears,
with a countenance that shouts homeless
like an "It's a Wonderful Life" cliché,
who smiles and tells me "Merry Christmas,"
and hands me a candy cane.