At The Confessional Box...

there is this boy
who looks like me when i was once a boy like him

who as taught by the priests
of the catholic schools have to be on a regular confession
inside that box where the priests
listens....

(Father i have sinned, i have not gone to confession
for a week and these are my sins...repeat, repeat, repeat,
and the priest, perhaps tired and
bored says...

my little son, say three hail marys, five our fathers, and 2 glory bes
and if you have time

write a poem) .

and so the poems since then were written.
the boy did not stop to live within that confessional box
the priest died
earlier than expected.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!