-near seven days in June-

a requiem:

1.

I missed by the better part of a week

a remembrance of the birthdate of Federico García Lorca.

inside the dank confessional behind the left field fence
where faults pressed upon the soul are reviewed for absolution,

I atoned for my weekly transgressions
including the Lorca lapse, listing it as

the grand finale in the litany of venial sins.  

for my penance it was left to Priest to order-up

five “Our Fathers'” and  five “Hail Marys'”

followed by "a Sincere Act of Contrition.”

later, when I placed a toll-call to Granada,

I was informed that it was too late,—

that they had killed him,— killed García Lorca.

I returned to give the bad news to Priest who babbled:

“pray for the repose of his soul

and the souls of all the faithful departed.”

I'd heard that refrain from the mouth of Priest before,
but they shot him dead anyway,— shot dead, Federico García Lorca.

2.

It's better, not to pray alongside Priest, but to read some Lorca poems.