My confession was ruined no more than an hour into
the glowing state of Grace by swearing at a car
that swerved too close in a cross walk.
Already soiled and
the whole class to take Communion Sunday!
I could go back. Surely the priest is still there
lounging unseen behind the screens,
listening, for hours to the same boring sins.
I once heard a rustle that made me think he
was reading the paper in there.
I would if I was him!
He’d know it was me, if I went back,
this priest who once stopped me
from adding a few sins when he was getting
To the absolution part.
“You’re done”, he’d said. “You’ve made your confession.”
There was the time I told him
I was living a lie. I’d heard it in a movie
and it sounded better than confessing to
impure thoughts for the millionth time.
He mumbled “welcome to the club”
Before asking me to elaborate.
Whatever I said mustn’t have been too bad-
got off with two Our Fathers and five Hail Marys.
“Hey, ya fat jag!” came the yell from across the street.
I knew ‘em sure, footballers like me, but unchurched,
unencumbered by the shadow of a fractured state of Grace.
“Fug off!” I yelled, flipping the finger and sealing it.
There’s no going back now.
I’d go to communion marked as the sullied sixth grade blackguard
That I was.