i think i'll steal that line

i go to confession at the local

church.

St. Thomas More.

i kneel

and go through the ritual.

i can see

the priest through

the webbed

screen.

his blurred face

and collar.

go on my son, he says.

i'm listening.

i tell him how i'm stealing

lines

and ideas

from the poets that i read.

Frost and Bishop,

Strand and Levine.

Bukowski too, God forgive me,

even him.

i read a few stanzas

and off i go to write 

my own version

of one of their poems.

i can't help it, i tell him.

i'm sorry.

i seem to have no imagination

of my own.

i see the priest shake his head.

and sigh.

get out of here

he says, and don't come back

until you have something

better

than this.

i need adultery, envy, murder

and pride.