One more job

Cold stone underfoot,
even through my shoes,
like one huge draft that
wafts indiscriminately among
the pews, through nave and apse,
and along my exposed skin.

It's early, but the confessional
is open, and I slip inside, resting
on the edge of the seat, looking
under my well-worn jacket to be
certain I haven't lost my piece.

Been a while, but the weight of it
hanging along my torso, was such
that I tended to feel it even when
not holstered up some reason. Peppermint,
the good old-fashioned kind, slips from
pocket to palm to center of my tongue,
a little something to avoid smoking--
I actually stopped a while ago,
but you know how nerves can be.

The sweet, but tangy, taste helps
sooth a throat taunted by moldy
leather and abused carpet within
the booth. A change in lighting announces
the priest. A warm, deep voice asks
what it can do for me, and I tap out a
sign of the Cross against my forehead.

"Bless me, Father, for I am about to sin,"
I say before finishing up the evening's
business and heading down the steep steps
to the street, Just in time to hear
the brakes and whistle of the train arriving
to take me back into obscurity.

Until next time, that is.