Good in Grits

Looking into his eyes

I see his soul.

Bare. Barely there. Barely clothed.

Sore. Aching for warmth. Aching for truth.

And this morning he sees good.

Sees good in grits.

He never had been given a lot.

But he never complained.

Thankful for these grits.

It was his first warm meal in a while.

First smile and ‘good morning’, too.

Any sane man there was touched

By the way he lit up when the tray met his hands.

And this is why we do it.

Whether it be grits or oatmeal

An orange or a slice of bread,

That he or she may see good in it

And know that they are loved.