Lost Keys

At the mission drop-in center

I stand and stare half-asleep

into half-light as clients

shuffle-in, leave garbage bags

as place holders before lining-up

for coffee and sugar.

They smell like the street—

mouthwash, liquor, and sweat.

Addicted and tired with problems

beyond us. But we try,

we do what little we can--

which for me includes 

handing out socks, coffee,

and the occasional bag-lunch.

After they sit-down again

a chorus of heavy-breathing

and snores hum under

Christmas music—

I continue half-sleep prayers.

A rush of sweatpants

rages past—“I’ll fucken kill ‘em,

I don’t even fucking care.”

I ask a stupid question—“Hey man,

how’s it going?” And he answers

with a parade of expletives. His keys.

He left his house keys by the computer.

And they weren’t even his keys.

And now they’re gone.

Receipts erupt from fleece pockets,

no keys. The phone area is hastily reorganized,

no keys. Steps retraced, condescending questions asked

“Are you sure. . .” All we could do is done. And still

no keys.

He looks at us like we have a secret

room in the back where we keep spare keys

for everyone who comes into the drop-in center;

if he asks the right way, in earnest, convincing us

of the gravity of the situation—

then we would solve this problem.

But we have no secret room,

no mysterious connection with the Divine

to guide us to the whereabouts of the lost

keys. They were lost and beyond us.

We offer the obvious,

boring, and responsible.

And he realizes we have no magic,

and walks to the corner,

stares out at the other clients

mumbling to himself and

running his hands through his hair.

I return to half-sleep prayers,

wondering if I was asking

in the right way, if God knew

the gravity of the situation.