confession
was a few years ago
in Father Smith's office
over at St. Bartholomew's.
it was a nice
office with statues and pictures
of holy figures
scattered about,
and on one wall
a black and white photograph
of the 1950
New York Yankees,
autographed by
all the players.
as i knelt on the plush
blue rug,
praying and confessing,
i squinted up
at Yoki Berra's signature
under his grinning face.
he wasn't a great
player, but he was
funny. durable, lovable.
a team player,
which makes up for a lot
shortcomings.
finally i finished my list
of sins,
your basic, lust, anger,
jealousy, a dab of envy,
here and there, etc.
i looked over at Father Smith,
who was now staring at me.
that's it, he says. that's all
you got?
no other sins you want to
confess to? are you sure?
you know it's an even bigger
sin if you're lying to me?
i shrug, nah, i think that's
it. but the day is young.
he didn't laugh.
nine hail marys, two
our fathers, and i want you to
wash and wax my car.
detail it, inside and out.
what?
we stand up and he tosses
me the keys.
pull it up out front when your
done, i've got an exorcism
to take care of this afternoon.
i blurt out a name, an
ex wife.
he looks at me, stunned,
how did you know?
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