Gary's Place.

You came to me, a ragged soul—

A disheveled man with no control.

Your tie was lost, your suit was torn,

Your briefcase leaking, paper-worn.

You climbed the drive in wind and rain,

A ghost of pride, of loss, of strain.

I gave you chow, a bowl of snow,

And watched you warm in twilight’s glow.

You sat in silence, soft but tense,

A worn-down man behind a fence.

Then came your voice—a guttural yowl,

A warning made from jaded growl.

You guarded food I gave with care,

Unsure if I’d still leave it there.

But still, I saw your chipped old fangs,

Your dirty ears, your crooked bangs.

And so I named you then and there—

Not Tom or Max, but Gary. Fair.

It fit the way your shoulders slouched,

The grey that in your fur had crouched.

A poor man down on borrowed time,

Still carrying his past like crime.

Once sharp and proud, now lost, estranged—

A former life, a face, unchanged.

Now just a stray in woolen grey,

You hoped the food would always stay.

You prayed the water wouldn’t freeze,

That nights would pass with gentle ease.

I built a home beneath the eaves

With scraps and nails and falling leaves.

You didn’t stay, you moved along,

But left behind a steady song.

For others came with just as much

Of hunger, fear, and need for touch.

And though they rarely speak your name,

They seem to sense from whence it came—

That once there lived a weary face,

Who turned this porch to sacred space.

And now they come with quiet grace,

Down on their luck,

To Gary’s Place.