The priests shoes are black
or should be,
but they are scuffed, dirty
traversing streets with Sacrament
for the broken in body
and helpless in spirit.
As evening draws in,
polish tin unscrewed.
Fresh scent bursts forth,
full of promised restoration.
But the phone rings
and the door knocks.
Distress down the line
Need on the porch.
Laminate school floors,
Church tile, sanitised wards.
Paths trod. With purpose.
Deep leather creases
from crouching in the gutter
and kneeling before the Lord.
Heel worn from waiting,
cracks created from care.
And when he meets the lofty
he prays they don’t look down,
and if they do, to realise
it is this way because
he won’t look down,
on anyone.
Clothes make not the man
but shoes reveal the priest,
who is pastor for his people
and pilgrim guide in life.
One day, that tin
will stay open.
When all else is done.
One day.
S+JMC
Written: 14.1.22