The Soup Kitchen
by Pat Montesano
Or why I can’t pronounce some words
Can’t hold a job or write my name
Have no interest in money or fame
I just do the best I can.
I know some people laugh at me
They don’t understand what they see
Sometimes they point, sometimes they stare
At my wornout clothes, my shaggy hair
I’m a different kind of man.
But there’s a place, each day at noon
They have for me a shiny spoon
A pretty dish that holds my bread
A bowl of soup so that I’m well fed
Where I’m a happy man.
The kitchen people call me “friend”
They always say to come again
They shake my hand, take time to talk
Don’t mind that I stumble when I walk
They know I’m a lonely man.
The kitchen people welcome me
They don’t make fun of what they see
They don’t care ‘bout how much I know
They don’t even notice my hair or clothes
They think I’m a special man.
With trembling hands and eyesight blurred
The magic of their spoken word
Has helped me through another day
Given me hope, a new prayer to pray
“Help me be a better man.”
I’ve walked many an icy mile
To see those daily noontime smiles
To sip my soup and break my bread
With friends who care and see that I’m fed
Because they understand.
These people know they could be me
We’re all a part of this mystery
They know the power of love for friends
That, as they love me, so do I love them
I’m the kitchen people’s man.
Published March 6 1985 The Catholic Herald
