Prostitutes Appeal to Pope
by Peter E. Murphy
Years before his name ascended from a Vatican chimney
he sat in a dark booth as professional as the girls
who exposed their souls for him to absolve.
Occasionally he would ask, How many times?
Are you sorry? Is there anything else?
But mostly he would sit, hands folded across his lap.
He preferred the girls to the gangsters who rattled
their trespasses like statistics. He despised the bureaucrats
who preached Godlessness at work then slinked
in to see him for their weekly pardon.
The girls, however, waited past forgiveness,
sometimes placing a cheek against the screen,
sometimes asking how he was, if there was anything
he needed. Of course he said no, grateful for a calling
that blessed his earthly toil as he rose
out of the darkness into the sanctified air.
