-The confessional and the young woman on the run-

             1.

             The steps to the church are forged of chiseled stone

             quarried from the city's ledge of granite.

             I've climbed them.

             Once inside, I looked things over;

             used the holy water to dab the trinity.

             I'm church legal.

             I'll choose a back row pew to better sample the fickle

             confessional line, (the mortal sinners make me wait)

             side-stepping into the pew, dropping to the kneeler.

             I kneel there. babble a prayer.

             Not a very good one.

             2.

             Someone’s whispering,

             one to another one.

             The sound's muted,

             a strange kind of resonance.

             Finishing, I'll use the required right hand.

             you know, the hand of God.

             

             (here, proximity is close enough)

         

             Father

             Son

             The Holy Ghost gets two.

             

             3.

             The preamble:

             During the un-enlightened ages on a Saturday afternoon,

             I lifted the kneeler to slip to its waiting position.

             I'm next to confess and then,––

             she draws back the curtain with a fury

             fleeing the box as she would the scene of a crime.

             (she's young and warm-looking, like a pane fresh from the bakery)

            

             I’m in.

             Blah my sins.

             So sorry. So sorry.

             

             It’s a penance of 5 “Our Father’s” and 5 "Hail Mary’s” for me,

             but I've learned to do the time in little more than a minute.

             An "Act of Contrition" more or less to tidy things up.

             The "Act of Contrition" is like a feather duster, clearing away

             the dead skin left behind by the absolutions. 

             Now homeward through the ballpark

             hopping the left field fence with time on my hands

             enough to covet my neighbor’s goods all over again and build

             erotic fantasies over what in hell it was she'd said she'd done.

             c.1952 / Quequechan