Soup Kitchen (Poetry)

The van draws into the side street kerb
and someone rolls the squeaking shutters up
spilling light onto the pavement
just a narrow yellow patch
like the mirage of some footworn welcome mat.

Steam rises in a canteen-smelling cloud
of meat and veg wafting through the night
as from the shadows —
one by one by one
the hungry and the homeless find their way.

Hunched against the cold they stand around
glad of every polystyrene cup
charity has brought them.
No poring over a menu undecided
the choice of fare already made.

There is very little conversation.
This is a lifeline not some members-only
jolly reunion or similar social occasion —
each give a nod of thanks
or grunt before they go shuffling off
back into the dark from whence they came.

With both soup and the last of the diners gone
it’s time to shut up shop.
The van moves slowly — disappears
leaving no sign in the unfeeling gutter
but a lingering reminder
warms the chilly late night air.