Unearned Heat

She didn't look at my grease-stained shirt

or the way the porch light flickered and died.

She just handed me the tray, like it wouldn't hurt

to accept the help I’d usually hide.

The steam rises from the ricotta cheese

in a ceramic dish that's much too nice.

My car is dead beneath the backyard trees,

a frozen block of rusted steel and ice.

I stand in the doorway holding the weight,

the heat of the lasagna soaking my palms.

It’s a strange kind of mercy, arriving late,

leaving me quiet and needing these alms.