text: Fight tuberculosis, folks
  Christmas Eve, an old junkie selling Christmas seals
  On North Park Street
  The Priest they called him
  Fight tuberculosis, folks
  People hurried by, gray shadows on a distant wall
  It was getting late and no money to score
  He turned into a side street and the lake wind hit him like a knife
  Cab stop just ahead under a streetlight
  Boy got out with a suitcase
  Thin kid in prep school clothes
  Familiar face, the Priest told himself
  Watching from the doorway
  Reminds me of something a long time ago
  The boy, there, with his overcoat
  Unbuttoned, reaching into his pants pocket for the cab fare
  The cab drove away and turned the corner
  The boy went inside a building
  Hmm, yes, maybe, the suitcase was there in the doorway
  The boy nowhere in sight
  Gone to get the keys, most likely, have to move fast
  He picked up the suitcase and started for the corner
  Made it, glanced down at the case
  It didnt look like the case the boy had or any boy would have
  The Priest couldnt put his finger on what was so old about the case
  Old and dirty, poor quality leather and heavy
  Better see whats inside
  He turned into Lincoln Park
  Found an empty place and opened the case
  Two severed human legs that belonged to a young man
  With dark skin, shiny black leg hairs
  Glittered in the dim streetlight
  The legs had been forced into the case
  And he had to use his knee on the back of the case to shove them out
  Legs, yet, he said and walked quickly away with the case
  Might bring a few dollars to score
  The buyer sniffed suspiciously
  Kind of a funny smell about it
  Its just Mexican leather
  Well, some joker didnt cure it
  The buyer looked at the case with cold disfavor
  Not even right sure he killed it, whatever it is
  Three is the best I can do and it hurts
  But since this is Christmas and youre the Priest
  He slipped three notes under the table into the Priests dirty hand
  The Priest faded into the street shadows, seedy and furtive
  Three cents didnt buy a bag, nothing less than a nickel
  Say, remember that old Addie croaker told me not to come back
  Unless I paid him the three cents I owe him
  Yeah, isnt that a fruit for ya, blow your stack about three lousy cents
  The doctor was not pleased to see him
  Now, what do you want? I told you!
  The Priest laid three bills on the table
  The doctor put the money in his pocket and started to scream
  Ive had trouble! People have been around!
  I may lose my license!
  The Priest just sat there
  Eyes, old and heavy with years of junk, on the doctors face
  I cant write you a prescription
  The doctor jerked open a drawer
  And slid an ampule across the table
  Thats all I have in the office! The doctor stood up
  Take it and get out! he screamed, hysterical
  The Priests expression did not change
  The doctor added in quieter tones
  After all, Im a professional man
  And I shouldnt be bothered by people like you
  Is that all you have for me? One lousy quarter G?
  Couldnt you lend me a nickel?
  Get out, get out, Ill call the police I tell you
  All right, doctor, Im going
  Of course it was cold and far walk to rooming house
  A shabby street, room on the top floor
  These stairs, coughed the Priest
  There pulling himself up along the bannister
  He went into the bathroom
  Yellow wall panels, toilet dripping
  And got his works from under the washbasin
  Wrapped in brown paper, back to his room
  Get every drop in the dropper
  He rolled up his sleeve
  Then he heard a groan from next door
  Room 18, the Mexican kid lived there
  The Priest had passed him on the stairs
  And saw the kid was hooked
  But he never spoke because he didnt want any juvenile connections
  Bad news in any language
  The Priest had had enough bad news in his life
  He heard the groan again, a groan he could feel
  No mistaking that groan and what it meant
  Maybe he had an accident or something
  In any case, I cant enjoy my priestly medications
  With that sound coming through the wall
  Thin walls you understand
  The Priest put down his dropper
  Cold hall and knocked on the door of Room 18
  Quien es?
  Its the Priest, kid, I live next door
  He could hear someone hobbling across the floor
  A bolt slid, the boy stood there in his underwear shorts
  Eyes black with pain, he started to fall
  The Priest helped him over to the bed
  Whats wrong, son?
  Its my legs, señor, cramps
  And now I am without medicine
  The Priest could see the cramps
  Like knots of wood there in the young legs
  Dark shiny black leg hairs
  A few years ago I damaged myself in a bicycle race
  It was then that the cramps started
  And now he has the leg cramps back
  With compound junk interest
  The old Priest stood there, feeling the boy groan
  He inclined his head as if in prayer, went back and got his dropper
  Its just a quarter G, kid
  I do not require much, señor
  The boy was sleeping when the Priest left Room 18
  He went back to his room and sat down on the bed
  Then it hit him like heavy silent snow
  All the gray junk yesterdays
  He sat there, received the immaculate fix
  And since he was himself a priest
  There was no need to call one