A Ragged Man Comes to Dinner

By Charles Hughes

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Part One

Two children and two parents
moved from a house they loved,
which made the children angry
much as when you’ve been shoved.

Their new house had stood empty,
a long, long way from new.
The roof leaked, so they fixed it.
Rain kept on leaking through.

A field of grass stretched, hilly,
behind the house. A hill--
the children, summer evenings,
would go if possible.

Katie brought chalks and paper
for pictures sunsets made.
Nathaniel, picturing treasure,
dug holes with an old spade.

Something about those evenings--
maybe the soil and sky?
The children’s anger faded.
They couldn’t have said why.

One evening as clouds colored,
cloud whites to rose-pink smears,
and piles of dirt grew taller,
slow footsteps jarred their ears.

A limping man paused, struggling
unsteadily to stand.
Katie—protective, older--
reached for Nathaniel’s hand.

Part Two

The children weren’t that frightened.
They’d seen such men before.
The year was 1930:
hard times; there’d been the war.

“That brown house,” Katie pointed.
“The church just down the way--
our father’s the new pastor.
We . . . Oh! Are you okay?”

The man, standing but teetering,
fell to one knee, knelt, then
after a moment, managed
to stand—wobbly—again.

His clothes old, frayed—eyes staring
as if he’d seen a ghost--
“I’m searching for a relic
from the war,” he said, “it’s lost--

“a barbed-wire cross—in ribbon--
crimson—laced, sewn in place--
too fine for my jacket pocket.”
Tears glistened on his face.

“A friend died who had made it,”
he told them, looking where
Nathaniel stooped low, digging.
The cross was buried there.

Both children watched him limping,
going back the way he’d come,
until the twilight hid him.
The children started home.

Part Three

The man sat at the table.
A Sunday dinner. Rain
outside dripped on the ceiling.
He ate and tried to explain.

Nathaniel elbowed Katie.
No reason. He was bored.
Their mother glared a warning.
Patience, she prayed to the Lord.

The man, more ragged, hungry--
but answering what he could--
spoke of the war, the sadness,
the beauty of the food.

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Charles Hughes has published two books of poems, The Evening Sky (2020) and Cave Art (2014), both from Wiseblood Books. His poems have appeared in the Alabama Literary Review, Amethyst Review, The Christian Century, Literary Matters, the Saint Katherine Review and elsewhere. He worked for over 30 years as a lawyer and lives in the Chicago, Illinois, area with his wife.

Charles' other work on Foreshadow:
Valediction (Poetry, May 2023)