father smith at the pawn shop

i run into Father Smith
up at the local pawn shop.
his black cassock is dirty,
stained.

these are hard
times, i hear him say
to the shop keeper.
do the best you can.

he has a pillow case full of gold
candle sticks,
chalices,
oil paintings from the renaissance
period,

and an assortment of jewelry
kissed by
the pope.

what's up, i ask him,
as he unloads his things onto
the counter.

i'm holding my fit bit
that i got three Christmas's ago.

ah, my son. hello. and God bless.
yes.
i'm pawning a few items from
the church.

we haven't had a pay day in
nine Sundays. so that's why i'm
here.
he points at the array
of shiny things.

I haven't had the money to
go to the dry cleaners, he says,
pointing at his clothing.

we don't want to touch
our savings account of nine
hundred billion
just yet.

the Vatican is keeping a tight
watch on that. so here i am.

if the poor caught word of all
the money we have in reserve
i have no idea
what these hungry jobless
people would do.

they might stop putting their
hard earned dollars
into the basket each sunday
when the lock down ends.

God forbid.