Craig Allen Heath
34 Degrees
At the most recent WordFest meeting in March, I was affected strongly by one reading in particular, and I wrote a poem on the spot about it. Homelessness is a sad and seemingly intractable problem in the United States, and here in my new corner of the world, it's getting worse - both in the sheer numbers of people without shelter, and the contentiousness of the debate.

A woman who volunteers a great deal of her time and effort to the cause read a short personal story about her work with a local shelter, and one thing struck me: She said that the rules kept the doors of the shelter shut unless the temperature reached 33 degrees for two consecutive nights. I knew that our town is tight with it's alms-giving, but I didn't realize just how tight. I was struck by the news.
So I wrote the following poem that night and read it to the group that night. A poem doesn't put a roof over anybody's head, but maybe it can put charity in somebody's heart.
34 Degrees
I am told
by a woman who knows these things
in her bones,
Mercy takes my temperature.
Death, too, watches the mercury.
My blood, chilled to 95 degrees
for 3 hours
buys my ticket across the Styx.
The guy with the scythe
feels my brow,
checks his watch,
and waits.
1 bone-cold night
out of doors, out of sight
out of luck,
and I am in the boat.
But, if the air I breathe
dips no lower than 34 degrees,
the doors of salvation
stay closed and locked.
The shelter
where I could hide from the old boy
for a night
will not open.
Rules, and rights,
and responsibilities, and regulations, and reasons
declare the quality of Mercy
strains at 34 degrees.
34 is a number.
34 degrees is a measure,
and the measure of a life
is 34 degrees.
