your sins

it's a short line
outside
the confessional booth
this Saturday
morning.
you wait your turn.
maybe people aren't sinning
as much as they
used to
you think.
you remember when the line
went out the door
when you were a kid,
standing there
counting out a multiple
of sins on your fingers.
finally the last
person comes out of
the booth.
she's beautiful, she
straightens
her skirt
and smiles at you before
quietly going
to a pew to kneel and say
her penance.
your sins keep piling
up.