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