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282 ˜ A Work of Hospitality, 1982–2002
Harold Wind (Orange Man), by Mark Harper
J u n e 1 9 9 0
Editor’s note: Mark Harper was a resident volunteer when he wrote this memorial
poem about Harold Wind, a deeply loved member of the Open Door who died
on June 23, 1986.
Harold’s was my first death
there snatched away quick as a wink
lungs lost to a quiet blitzkrieg of
30 years on three packs a day
A mile for a Camel, they used to say
in the end even the distance to the toilet
was too far
Still, how could a shrunken chest
contain a heart so mighty A muscle to muster the breath
for one more birthday candle
a light as bright as the fluorescent cap you wore
like an orange beacon morning upon morning
cutting through the city’s damp sigh attentive
to the errand of mercy
Orange man
light in the darkness of 250 broken bodies
pouring like tired water into the church basement
sleepless, bloody eyes finding a smile and four slices
of an orange at line’s end
simple succor for partakers of bitter fruit
Worn-out, finally, you hung up the cap
and taught us about freedom. Even as bony-fingered
death was picking your pocket you
cracked a grin and with language lean shot back
at the thief:
“You gave me six months,
It’s been six months.
I’m still here. Ta da!”
And “here” meant family meant more than long lines
of the hungry on the outside