The Preist Poem by James McLain

yesterday
i heard the priest
had died
portly as a child
his
smell always moth ball sour
i hated visiting the old
with him
not of they being old
but of his
telling me to take his/her out
the rooms
always very small there
you can tell
you just can tell
i think it was because
of some thing
before i was born
and i always notice things
even still to this day
maybe it's because
yesterday
when i heard it
and i was told
i went more than a little cold inside.