A Cold December Night, poem by J Glen Evans

On a cold December night he walked the streets alone. The cuffs of his old
worn denim jacket needed a haircut. A ragged moth-eaten sweater offered
little defense against the cold. A crumpled black canvas hat sheltered his
head. A small pack on his back bore little weight. He kept his ungloved
hands in his pockets. His right hand squeezed a folded knife. Passing a
neighborhood restaurant, he stopped for a moment to gaze at those inside,
laughing, talking and eating from sumptuous plates of food. Walking on, he
found himself in a neighborhood. Windows streamed amber and red seasonal lights. He could see people inside. He could almost feel their laughter and remembered other times.

At the end of the block he saw a churchyard with a large well-lit Nativity
scene. People drove by, some stopped to look, others speeded on. Standing in the shadow of a nearby tree surrounded by English laurel, he waited.
When no cars were in sight, he dashed toward the Nativity scene. Squeezing behind Mary and Joseph, he sat down alongside the manger. He took the knife from his pocket and carefully peeled the cellophane from a shrink-wrapped piece of cornbread. In the warmth of the light he sniffed its fragrance.
He slowly savored its taste as he ate his Christmas supper with the Lord.