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.

Now what?

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.