Low Hanging Fruit

A heavy dew coats
All the naked twigs
And spikes of dead, brown grass
With a silver frosting.
Even the air is saturated
And at first, stings the lungs
With the first breath
Of early day.

Upstairs in my home
My freshly made bed
Is still warm
And I fight the urge
To return to its safe folds.

Thinly clad bodies
Huddle within newspaper blankets
Lie upon cardboard mattresses.
They dwell under railroad bridges
And tree lines along the river.

An old drag queen I'd befriended
Had lived this way for years.
I'd tried to help him enroll
In the Rescue Mission
And later paid his first month's rent
On a new apartment.
But by winter, Queenie was once again
Homeless.

We'd had many conversations
About hypothermia
And the risks of young toughs
Who rolled those alone and sick.
Low hanging fruit.
Alone and vulnerable.

We buried Queenie in a service
Attended by the few friends he had.
A roving gang beat him senseless
Broke his legs
Then set him afire
Beneath a dark trestle.

As beautiful as the frost is
My thoughts return to Queenie.
It's the ones who die
That grip my memory.
Any success stories are lost somewhere
In the mix.

The frost icing is sharp
In morning sun.
It's splendid and invites awe.

But it's Queenie
His body writhing in its own
Fire and ice
Who fills my thoughts
This morning.