Notes scatter from

the bell at the top of the door.

She looks up from her book

to see him cowed as if

the notes were shards

of glass and he was a hemophiliac.

“Close the door,” she smiles and closes her

book without marking her place.

The wind from the river across the tracks stops, but

the notes spill again.

He tries to hide it, but she sees, again,

the wince that happens a hundred times a day as

the rocks from the track bed stab his feet through

the thin soles of his worn engineer boots and

the cinders plague his eyes and

the wind cuts his neck where

the jacket won’t close.

He blinks as she shows him

the stairs that creak up to

the bull pen where

the men sleep and

the radiator clicks and sighs.

“Donations are helpful, but not required,” she says

and watches him begin to sag as

the warmth finds him.

“Thank you,” he says and marvels at

the ceiling rafters arching above.

He drops his duffel next to

the cot and sits, surrendering to

the building’s blanket-strewn hug.

She watches him for a moment,

smiles, and goes back down

the stairs, not making a sound, to

the dog-eared book that she

ruffles with affection. She knows

the light is always on and can be seen all

the way across the broad dark river.