the priest

i find the priest
in back of the rectory.
he is smoking and
walking. he's
wearing black. he's
feeding the pigeons,
a motley grey persistent
flock, from a small
bag of seed in his
coat pocket, they follow
him with nervous
footsteps and i follow
behind them.
i yell out, father,
can i have word. and
he stops and turns.
he is old and his body
sags with the weight of
countless confessions.
his hair is white
and thick, uncombed,
but his eyes are blue,
like one would expect
heaven to be, kind
and gentle. even now,
here in the cold as
he walks, he's ready for
one more. he doesn't
know me. i rarely go
to church despite the
fact that i could walk
there in two minutes,
but i have things to
ask him, things to tell
him, but i don't want
to now. feeling the
calm and trust in him,
and seeing him like
this with me in pursuit
humbles me, and does
more to answer my
questions than any words
he could say.