CONFESSION

Bless me, Father, it has been,
oh my God, seven years
since my last confession,
you know, after the accident.
Before that, a decade or two.
I don’t do confessions well.

You know, the Protestants
say we don’t need this,
we can just talk to God,
avoid the nerve-wracking
wait in line, eavesdropping
on murmuring voices in the box.

My heart is beating so hard,
as if I had killed someone.
No. I’m frankly fuzzy on the
protocol from second grade,
scary sister in black habit,
Fr. B whom we all feared.

Okay. Sorry. Moving on.
My sins are the blurry kind.
I didn’t eat meat on Friday,
but I did eat too much,
and I gossiped, I just love
a good story, don’t you?

I cursed. It just jumps out.
God damn it. Jesus Christ.
Son of a bitch. Fuck.
What? You get it, yeah.
Sex? Nothing to say about that.
Sometimes I yell at my dog.
She’s deaf; it doesn’t count.

Father, I must have sinned
somewhere along the line, but
I can’t give you dates and times.
I’m here confessing anyway.
Swab my soul like Mr. Clean,
give me prayers to pray.
See you again in seven years.