Mary and the Old Priest.
The old priest sat
in the dark of the
confessional. A girl
had entered on the
other side and knelt.
A rustle of clothing,
breathing, a cough.
He was prepared for
the list of sins, the
the soft voice verbal
sprouting, the usual
schoolgirl misdemeanours.
Yes my child? He said.
Mary on the other
side stared at the grille,
tried to make out which
was the priest. Bless me
Father she began, then
the list ran. The priest
placed his hands over
his ears. The list was long,
indelicate, touching on
the obscene. He fumbled
with his beads, tried to
make out the voice,
the owner, which girl?
He thought, peering into
the grille, his eyes searching
through the semi dark.
Mary pushed her knees
together; she sensed the
need to pee. She knelt holding
herself in, pushed her hands
between thighs. How long
was the old codger going to be?
She mused. The priest coughed.
Sniffed, tried to discover the
scent. He said the usual words,
about trying to avoid the occasion
of sin, have faith, and so forth
uttered in a strained voice.
He peered hard. The outlined
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poem by Terry Collett
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