And a Broken House-Key

A frigid December night in a somewhere Midwest town, He'd been out late on some errands, buying stuff he needed; Came home dog-tired, ready to shower and stretch, Put his key in the door, and received The shock of his life. The key didn't work; it didn't move this way or that: His mind reeling, again and again the key didn't turn as he quivered; Heart pounding, thoughts racing, anger welling up in him; Looked up for a moment, stopped in his tracks, his will failing, So grim. Four squad cars were ready, though quiet for now, Officers poised to pounce should he crack; Stepped cautiously back from that ex-entrance of iron, Spirit sinking, thoughts askew: Surely it's all a huge misunderstanding. All of three months he'd lived in the town, Hardly knew a soul at work, never mind on the block; --Turned out in the dead of brutal midwestern winter's night With two dimes in his pocket and a broken housekey. He made the first call, "I'm sorry to disturb you..." "No trouble at all, can I help, you sound lost..." A voice from heaven over an AT&T line, Rescued him from damnation and embarrassment's cackle. A saint with a white beard smiled at him in the doorway, welcomed him warmly, whisked him in from the cold; showed him into a closet-sized room, A king's palace to a man With a dime in his pocket And a broken house-key That fits no family. March 04, 2018