We wash feet on the New Haven Green,
feet that need deep callouses,
that walk in wet socks after spates of rain.
If you listen while two feet soak, 
maybe you come to know the daily movements
of a woman named D.,
whose feet drag from the warming center 
into winter dawns to rest in the bus shelter
until the library opens at 10,
who hurries to the seat by the window
in the sci-fi/fantasy reading room,
and waits for her ankles to hinge and tilt
with A Wrinkle in Time,
turning gravity into a Mrs. Whatsit lullaby.

On Sundays and all public holidays,
when the library is closed and it’s too cold to sit outside,
she stands on sleek sidewalks as long as it takes
to panhandle enough bus fare to the Post Road Mall, 
where recliners line the promenade to the shops,
and the security guard who works Sundays and