“…sweating like Judas
tired of dying…”—Samuel Beckett (from Enueg II)
In the confessional,
ramrod straight,
mouth cotton dry,
lips like crazed china,
hands a fidget,
I concentrate, rehearse, wait my turn.
The window slides open.
Father Keller’s ghostly image emerges,
dour silhouette, a mystery
barely discernable through the thin curtain.
I cross myself mechanically.
I can’t remember all the lies.
Sins go unreported.
April 23, 2016

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