Where do priests go at night?

There’s an old church
just off Maple Avenue
where I once slept
to get out of the rain
and there was a priest there
in his big, white dress
polishing candlesticks

he was there to smell out
all the sins of clasped hands
and to protect donations
from fingers that weren’t there
for honest prayer.

That night I came back;
he was still there
buffing the altar
to breaking point.

I crawled into
a gas station bathroom
to wash the dirt from my eyes
before leaving for another town,
not returning for a couple
of seasons.

Months changed their names
as I arrived back at the church
in the same old wet scenario
of storm avoidance

there he was, hands full,
pews empty.

I guess there are some men
who need love and a hot meal
more than the hungry.
Written by 24601 (John Brady)
Author's Note
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