He curbs his tattered camper by the park
Except for days the city sweeps the street.
He drives one block and back—it only has
As many miles left as he has teeth.

It happened in the light of Christmas Day,
A crash that robbed the pictures from his walls.
He ventured shaken from his home to find
A black Mercedes crushed behind its stern.
With airbags blown, the driver staggered out
Conspicuously drunken was his gait.
Unscathed. The only marks that Marvin saw:
A stripe left by a wedding ring resigned
And—something his own mirror used to know—
A face that bore the glaze of suicide.

The swell of anger warm in Marvin’s throat
Was swallowed as he urged the man inside.
Banana, water, blanket, couch, and pan.
The driver puked and promptly fell asleep.
He snored beneath a sharply tailored suit
And Marvin knew his Rolex wasn’t fake,
He found the wallet, took what he would need,
And prayed the man would not abruptly wake.

It wasn’t long before the sirens sang
And Marvin met the cops outside his door:
“The numbers we exchanged—they’re on this sheet.
He’s at the Urgent Care across the street.”
They ran the plate. The driver’s info matched.
“Ya know, Marv, you can’t park this here no more.
This ain’t the first we’ve told you. Now it’s time.”
“Just give me one more week. I’ll find a way.”
“They’ll tow the car today, but Marv, you’ve got
‘Til New Year’s when we come to take this brick.”
They hurried their report, resumed patrol,
And oddly never asked if he’d been hurt.

The propane lines still worked. He lit a match
And heated up his last two cans of soup.
The crumpled car was taken as he stirred
And soon enough the bleary driver woke.
Yet when he did, confusion came in waves
As Marvin told him what transpired that day.
He tried to leave as soup was being served
But Marvin begged he take some on his way.

The stranger mused aloud, “Is this your home?”
Then Marvin poured and countered: “What is home?
The Christ had not a place to lay his head.
His birthplace even rendered him no bed.”
The driver checked his wallet, scrolled his phone,
Then stood and lied that friends were on their way.

Reality was cold outside the door,
The cupful was the warmest thing he knew.
He eyed the damage—wheels were kissing wells—
Then took a sip and turned to mutter: “Why?”

The man who looked more destitute than wise
Said, “Often goes the Christ in stranger’s guise.
He gave his home to save a wretch like me
So how could I withhold my own from thee?
A home is not the place you pay to live,
Your equity’s the space you’re freed to give.”

Yet hardened hearts are sluggish to receive;
The stranger turned and walked away perplexed.
It took about a week to recognize
That Marvin’s gift had swallowed him with life.

© Tanner Rinke 2021