He hurriedly glanced at his wristwatch again,
The shadow of the cross from the steeple
Landing in the middle of the watch.
A sigh echoed through the church courtyard,
And a few rats scurried out of their hide-aways.
They should be here by now.
The moon hung in the sky,
Trying and failing to shed light on what was below.
The harsh noise of a truck on gravel reached his ears,
And he breathed a sigh of relief.
The newcomer parked the truck and lumbered out,
Holding several filthy beer bottles in his large, grimy hands.
“Here you go.”
His voice was gruff, calloused even, as if it was being
Grated like cheese.
Money from the priest’s hands went into the driver’s hands,
And when the priest looked into his eyes,
They spoke legends of murder.
The truck drove away, and
Pretty soon the courtyard was silent again,
Except for the hoot of an owl,
The contented sigh of the priest, and the
Pop of a beer bottle being opened.