Everyday she toils under a blanket of steam
Chopping, blending, seasoning,
Shouting requests to the volunteer army
Sweating, grey hair stuck to her red cheeks,
Yet she smiles, twinkling eyes of irridescent green.

Noon and the fragrence of soup and the great unwashed
Mingle in the alleyway
Cold expectant tummies
Nostrils flaring with the heartening aromas
Impatient feet shuffle and stamp.

The door opens with a welcoming creak
The weather worn queue hustle in
Maggie has been there and does not forget
Respect due, whatever the circumstance
Humans not animals.

The faint hum of low voices, spoons clatter,
Slurping sounds, and grunts of approval.
Maggie walks the room
Gentle hands touching shoulders, shaking hands
Nodding at the reluctant, confused and shy.

Bread is stuffed into pockets and bowls returned
As the volunteer army haste forward with sponges
The room slowly empties, and doors close.
They will return again
Like she does
Six days out of seven.