It is November and cold.
The city's two hospitals are full
and the shelters are turning away
everyone without children in tow.
But she knows how to get
what she needs these nights
when no warmth can be found
in the doorways or alleys or parks
of downtown. All it takes is one brick,
one plateglass window, and two cops
to deliver her to her boxed heaven
of iron and cement
where she can fill her belly and lie back
dreaming of rhythms
she can't find in Spokane
and a sun that warms her
all the way through
to the fine white sand.