fuck, no priest

clutching a meek knit-sweater
around my shoulders,
I made my way to the silent
church in the silent
mountains around Itter.
drunken voices echoed from the hostle,
threatening to pull me back
in for a cocktail of lights and smoke.
a few locals rode past me
on bicycles with childish bells ting-ing
though they wouldn’t have noticed me
through the descending fog.

two cat eyes peered and ran
from the steps leading to the
locked church doors.
no priest, fuck;
I’d have to break a window?
I wasn’t going back there.

no Cat so I was left to
wander the inner-gates.
the stone and pebble yard
doubled as a grave yard.
How the hell does a Father
get the day off?
I thought
as I looked over the tombs.

They were all in German
but Death has no official
language, nor tears.
so I walked through the rows
and rows and stopped at a Couple.

He had died in the 60s and she
in the 90s—now they were always.
I attempted to move on
but for some reason I didn’t.
the tombstone was newer, and clean,
I actually felt glad for them
in some morbid crevice of mine.

the sun and the mist were falling fast
and I could see my breath like Death
but it was not genuine, and I knew It.
at this time, the cat came back,
startling the shit nearly out of me.
I was relieved; I thought my
ticket had finally run out.
the same cat, same eyes
I had warmed to.
we stood next to each other
facing the buff marble—

I smoked myself; he preened;
we both needed a break.
Fuck, Father, where does God go
at night?

it was becoming very, very cold.
my foot stamped out the butt;
my hand scooped up the cat;
he sat up over my right shoulder;
we left the old Couple—
we left them all to rest.

techno music is awful but the frost is worse,
so despite the stink and cacophony of alcohol,
we headed back together—

the house of God sat behind us,
silent and completely useless.