C.H.O.P.

Across from the old, abandoned warehouse
a railway track runs near a small store
that sits on a paved corner,
faded burgundy bricks barely hold it together.
Three large red circles face the street.
The store always opens at ten sharp.

Regular customers in yesterday’s clothes
wait to wander in and make their selections
for a liquid breakfast.
A woman in an over-large, blue, plaid shirt
pulls on the metal bar and slides
through the glass, her left hand
in her pocket.

She moves right to a familiar aisle
turning left when she sees her friend Jack.
An index finger slides lovingly from the cap
to the base as she lifts the bottle
from the shelf.

Back-tracking to the cashier,
who sits near the door,
the woman removes her left hand
clasping green bills and coins.
She drops the exact amount, turns,
and flicks a hand over her shoulder at Jeff,
slipping into the too bright sun.

Her right foot steps right down King Street.
Moving under a bridge, covered with ivy
and decorated with large cracks and crevasses,
discolored yellow concrete, aged from time,
she walks, clutching her pal in a brown bag.

Cars move briskly by, even in daylight,
with windows up and doors locked,
but she knows this part of town.
Her long, disheveled brown hair lifts
in a passing breeze of cigar smoke
from the man in front of her.

Coughing, from his smoke and her age,
she stops to let him get ahead.
Leaning against a mauve wall,
she tilts her head to the sun momentarily
then brings the bag to face level.

Her hands fumble on the black cap.
Pushing off the building to brace herself,
her left foot shuffles forward.
She pivots, looking to see what supported her,
and is surprised to find, the last thing
she thought she needed.
It is the Charleston House Of Prayer.