Vagrant in the House of Women

Vagrant in the House of Women

    He sleeps in sodium light shadows. There, whiskey weary souls expire like angels in the fetid night air. Their cardiac cauldrons pump like lovers in a final tryst.          
     On Christmas Eve the Soup Kitchen runs out of meals. The last cup of milk is served. The bewildered hobo roams the storefronts in search of Yuletide generosity from restaurant owners. When he rounds a corner, an angel holds his hand and opens her van door.
     His heavenly companion gives him a derriere boost and he feels the warmth of her hand through his threadbare trouser bottom. Her touch is like a hot ray of sunshine from the tree shadows to warm his back pockets on a cold winter day. She pushes him into the warm seat with heat blowing from the dashboard vents.  
     She takes him to a homeless hotel where private rooms and three squares await. There, pretty maidens all in a row are garbed in gabardine skirts. These angels of mercy are happy to serve and please the boarders with grownup candy striper smiles.
     A lass pours him hot chocolate. At the entrance to the shower room, he is greeted by a magnolia mademoiselle who beams forest love. This worker glows a tupelo honey smile which is sweet as sassafras tea. Her camellia hands pass him a towel and he crosses the threshold into fresh outlook on life. Afterward, he tastes the collectivist dream of mocha freedom donated by a coffee shop.
     A bohemian damsel enters the picture and embraces him like an old friend but with his street dementia, he doesn’t register a clue as to her identity. He gazes at her lovely face like an Alzheimer patient. “I never forget anyone. John, we grew up together in Mississippi. I’m your cousin, Jade. You taught me how to ride a bike. Your reward will be for me to nurse you back into your prime” Jade proclaims. His words tangle like brambles in a neglected corner of memory.
     A maiden floats like a flute melody to lead him to the fount where hair conditioner will untangle his knotty crown. She lays her soft hands upon his head to bring him comfort in the hour of his deepest need. He feels the flutter of her silken fingers with tropic water pouring onto his pate.
     She sifts the fine strands of his angel hair in the flaxen sheen love light of her touch. His wheaten ripples roll under the weave of her undulating strokes. Like a fine web of sweetness, his tender scalp becomes a pleasure garden with his ache joining her compassion. She leads him to the barber chair. There, his locks fall under the finesse of a scissor witch who reclaims the handsome man from what vagrant tears have wrought.  
     The woman says, “You refugees of the street are like unto Jesus. So shall I wash your feet in the tears of the Dead Sea like the woman bathed Christ’s feet in her own teardrops.”
     Uninvited she sprinkles the bottled salt water upon his feet. The hobo smiles like a boy on his first date when the pangs of his youth were soothed. Then she dries his feet with her hair like his wife in an act of love. Her frankincense oiled hands soften his callouses. But her most precious gift comes when she cradles his heel in her hands. Her kisses upon his bare sole feel like a walk in a bed of rose petals.