The
Social Workers
We
know where the homeless shelters are,
where
flattened men sit, warmed by liquor
and
the collective conscience
of addition and handicap.
We’ve
seen them
leaning
against confetti-ed walls,
like
flies on the carcass
of
wasted years – a fading future.
We
go to houses painted the shade
of
a nightmare;
coats
of fear and abuse building up,
concealing the
shame and ignorance
of
a life devoid of harmony
and
strength in the daylight of love.
We
sit in the foster homes
and
place the injured offspring
into
stations near the end
of
an awfully short road,
with
any luck - free of maltreatment,
but
still choking with the exhaust
of
separation and loss.
We
glare past the packaging,
into
the plastic hands of incubators
holding
the two-pound result
of
ambivalent conception and crack cravings.
We
leave the county hospital startled
by
the miniature creatures
and
the tubes keeping their faint rhythms alive.
We
ring the AIDS center - beg them for an opening,
drop
her off at the battered women’s shelter,
and
latter query the housing authority,
then
sigh when we’re reminded of the waiting list.
Sometimes
our hearts aren’t in it
and
often we’d die for another profession.
But
if God returns while we’re still here
and
we find ourselves in need of His attending to,
at
least we’ll know where to find Him -
beside
us - the social workers,
down and dirty
with the least of us...
by Joshua Pulis, LCSW