17 degrees--the high for the week.

Not counting wind chill.

We huddle together, friend or stranger

The stars have vanished, waiting for the sun.

Cling to the building, but the wind still bites

Through clothes

Through blankets

Through disappearing cartilage

Through bandages

Through old scars

Echoing in the chambers of empty stomachs.

Let us in. Let us in.

Waiting, waiting to go inside.

Waiting, waiting, to take a number.

Waiting again to wait in line.

To get a box of food, and take it home.

To feed ravenous mouths

To quiet the growling,

The gnawing,

The craving.

The pain.

We wait together.

And let the cold wind blow as it will.