The poem follows a speaker through one wet morning, moving from church to coffeehouse to alley to home. Each stop seems to promise something, and none quite delivers. The church is nearly empty, with hardly ten people in it. The coffeehouse feels like a theater where the acting is poor, as if everyone there is performing a part without much conviction.
Then the alley brings a shift: a couple of pretty women who sell sex. The speaker notes them plainly, without comment, and the poem doesn't tell us what he does or feels. The title, "Getting religion," sits oddly beside this, and the reader is left to decide whether he's searching for faith, mocking it, or finding something else in its place.
The last line, "as quiet as money," is the sharpest. It suggests secrecy, perhaps a little guilt, or a transaction kept hidden. The mood is flat, damp and watchful, with a dry irony running underneath.