Room Service

One way, along the s-curve underneath the Harbor Freeway harbors the homeless tents pitched in front of a mural of light. Masses overpass the ritz and underpass the pits. Politicians disavow their existence while accumulating allowances to spend around town. At this angle, there’s room for a view on what to do. Some sweep brooms, some bring food and a very few pray for one another against the impending doom. The stitching of these spaces will wear out, suddenly tear. The staggered glass is gleaming blue, almost seamless. At this rate, salt water pool, beaming white towels folded to perfection, and room service before the do not disturb is hung on the door. Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with him, and he with me. The room service of the redeemer sees something is wrong here with patient authority. His presence will draw the stray out of harms way and into the light of life. Thousands of places to go, but the doorkeeper chooses the house of the Overseer rather than to dwell in the tents of the wicked.