Priest

There is something about a priest who walks into a bank on a Wednesday afternoon,

There is something sacred, something honored,

The black robes swish as he joins the queue,

His antique head covered in whisps of white hairs,

He holds back his crucifix as he bends down to fill out a deposit slip.

There is something wholly good,

So that the lady behind wonders if maybe he is on a mission from God,

And the clerk speaks soft in humble tones.

There is something worth respect,

So that even the firmest atheist cannot but stand in line silent.