by Father Humour
Ill, sick men come to me.
I take their wet, shaking fingers
and touch them gentley.
Their soft finger tips - cold and burnt
I feel their finger tips with mine.
Their individual existences printed
into their fingers - their lives echoed
in the beaten, rough, cut fingers.
They came from the streets.
I do not, for I am Saint.
I am forever here, forever myself.
They beg forgiveness for sins never
Sometimes, I lick their fingers. I place
the softness, the sensitive tongue upon
the salty, cold, and burnt finger tips.
I taste their piss, and I weep.