Random diary entries from a working priest:
she spits at me from her crow clothes,
and crumpled cloth.
‘You, who are you
I have come up to her as she sits
muttering on the bench
out the front of the church
I have knelt down next to her and the group of men,
who are always there,
to say g’day,
pass the endless time of day when you have (literally )
nowhere to go
and nowhere else to be.
The men greet me with ‘Heys’ and gaps toothed smiles,
baseball caps on backwards
and tattoos all faded on their faces.
they are happy to see me
But this woman…
You, who are you
‘no, I mean I could be (there but for the grace of god) but I’m not…
I’m the minister’ Minister!
‘Hah, you are not, you look like teenager, your hair, it is mess,
and you in jeans, you homeless’.
I brave her scorn and sit next to her on the bench
The men wander off, and we sit
on International Women’s Day,
and she berates me for my fashion.
I open the church, go in and get my alb and stole
I put them on, in front of her
‘Ta da I say
told you so’
‘Yes, yes, now you are priest’
She says. ‘You should wear that
All day and then we will know who you are.’