Confessionals in the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, Spain,
by Georges Jansoone, via Wikipedia
It was silly, the heart-pounding,
of sitting there in the twilight
of a near-empty church,
waiting to whisper what a ten-year-old
thought were grievous sins
to a forty-year-old man hiding in a box
behind a screen and a collar.
I remember the nuns making us
practice for first confession
and sending me back to my seat
to think up more sins, since
I couldn’t come up with enough
imaginary ones from which
I could be given a real penance.
I haven’t been back in many years.
Not since one of those guys
sitting in the darkness committed
his own too-real heart-pounding,
sweaty sins and felt forgiven
after some buddy in another box gave him
five Our Fathers and eight Hail Marys.
My catch-up poem, #13 in Poem-a-Day NaPoWriMo 2015, from a prompt asking for a confession poem. A free-write produced this, for which I may burn.