Castoffs
At the Drop-In 3/99
It was about comfort without shame
stuffing busting out of couch arms,
aberrant lampshades askew, cracked dishes,
shelves in discontinued paint colors,
warped mirrors in the toilet rooms from a yard sale
all the things the Night People know down to the last nick and rip
put out in the parking lot
for the toothless Haul Anything Man
who made more in an hour
than the Night People who wanted to sit down.
The place with a Welcome mat for the unemployed,
maladjusted, diagnosed, and abhorred got a new front door.
The lonely people saw their collections loaded for the dump,
scrounged speakers, pencil sharpeners, half working,
the three-legged desk made level by books,
lounge chairs locked in out-stretch position,
stained clothes and holey socks neighbors had left in the doorway.
The painter made the Day Room cheerful yellow.
The newspaper came by for an After Shot.
The decorator donated her expertise
The lighting was upgraded to call attention
to coordinated new chairs, unmarred tables, purposeful activity
but the Night People shied away and hid their eyes.
They paced and rocked outside the streakless windows.
They wanted a shabby couch, a blanket and a haven
where no one would kick them or taunt them as "wingnuts."
They timidly tasted the import coffee, eyes cast on the ground.
It was clear: what they knew but hoped not to know:
They weren't somehow good enough.
by Bonnie Schell