Some people are hungry, some people who care start their planning.
A phone call, a stop, generosity, not too demanding.
Organics, just bruised but still fresh, the grocery giving.
A bake'ry, spare loaves and bread rolls, the baker donating.
A pizza not claimed from last night, pizzeria is helping.
This morning, not early, spare time, now the people are gathering.

A mound of potatoes, a pile of greens they are cutting.
Vegetable bouillon, sliced greens and rosemary for seasoning.
Some cayenne for warmth, some sea salt for flavor they're adding.
A woman, a purpose, a pot, smell the sliced apples steaming.
A loose oven door, with a bungee he's carefully closing.
Pizza and breadsticks, they're always a favorite, warming.

A table, two pails, plastic bin with the dishes for serving.
The food and the people, supplies in the truck for transporting.
The people, old clothes, weathered cheeks, hands in pockets are waiting.
Then joy, brightened eyes, get some food, find a place and start eating.
Some men by the bushes, some down on one knee, some still standing.
A pat on the back, talking, laughing, each other enjoying.

Hot soapy water, cold hands, their used bowls they are washing.
Leftover bread scattered ‘round, all those pigeons are pecking.
The gulls on the wing are more shy, wait their turn and keep calling.
A half dozen misfits, a score of the people not starving.
The world, its big problems, for part of today, they're not both'ring.
In that pause between this week and next week some peace they are sharing.