Six days before Christmas, I moved about fast loaded wrapped packages, stepped on the gas For the nine PM closing of UPS I arrived to find lights, but the door had been locked I saw a man sweeping, and hopefully knocked But he turned and motioned--sorry, we’re closed I had lost the race, the gifts would be late My efforts for good become trivia, waste Might as well call the kids and confess Then out from the shadow, a homeless man stepped All dirty and scary, and me alone and inept A hand in my purse formed a gun, a deception But the man only smiled and walked to the door Through the glass he motioned the sweeper of floors They met and talked through a crack to the side Their words were muffled by noise of the street But they motioned to me as if trading a treat Now there were two and I wanted to run Then the door opened; the sweeper said, Come I’ll take your packages only this once To the homeless man, I said only, why? My hand-gun melted, held a twenty instead I pushed it toward him, still scared He refused it, just waved and departed Slipped back to the shadow, some foxhole or nest How long he was homeless, where does he rest? Maybe born in a barn and sleeps on the hay Foxes have holes and birds have nests But some have no place of their own to rest Itinerate preachers, nomads, and angels I took him as homeless, a tramp or a bum Or stooping down, he’d become his daughters son As a bird that was hatched in the nest that he built Perhaps he’s bottomed, lives in a doorway His actions ask--Where do you stay? Where and when do you really live?