Wings Over New Haven

One Thursday I choose to walk home from work,

leaving my lab in Anlyan’s north wing

foregoing the Yale Shuttles on Orange Line

to trek through New Haven with shoulder bag

in tow, learning that my shoe choice was poor,

blisters forming as I walk up Grove Street

***

Turn on Whitney, shops, pubs along the street,

luring doctors and interns after work.

A man leaning against the brick, health poor

and clothes tattered, points to a sign - a wings

and ribs joint - with his cane. Eyes rimmed with bags

chin stubbly and scarred with a crooked line,

***

“Haven’t eaten all day, they closed the line

for disability. I’m on the streets.

Any cash to spare?” He nods toward my bag.

I hesitate, just twenties from some work

done for research studies in the south wing.

Blessed is the one who considers the poor,

***

The psalm echoed in my head. Help the poor,

it's the right thing to do, familiar line.

How much could it be for a plate of wings?

Ten, not twenty. “No cash,” eyes on the street.

“Only my card,” I lie. “Well that could work,”

he pleads. I’m stuck Jacksons weighting my bag.

***

Inside, I pull my card out of my bag.

Cashier eyes us, she’s surely seen the poor

old guy through the store window while she worked.

He limps up to the counter, there’s no line.

Workers stop, stare, Why’s this guy from the streets

in here and why’s this girl buying him wings?

***

“Sky Master” he says, sixteen boneless wings,

“And celery”, he adds, she fills the bag.

Must gain quite the appetite on the streets.

“That’s extra,” she looks to me, like I’m poor

and duped. “That’s fine,” card swipe, sign on the line,

twenty-two dollars. Funny how life works.

***

Saucy scent of wings seeps into my pores.

He clutches his bag, checkered with red lines,

says “Thanks” at the street. I need more heart work.