Bless Me, Father
Two minutes more, Father Paul,
and you will hear another of my strange confessions.
Right now, I'm outside
watching the rain on my glasses
running in rills.
When I make it to the church,
I'll confess the usual stuff with a few variations,
the same plot, the same ploys,
the same frenetic tale I have always to tell.
Next week, however, things will be different.
Next week, I won't make a list
in the diner across from St. Peter's.
The waitress there knows me too well.
Last week she asked, "Am I on your list?"
"Not a chance," I said.
"What time do you get off from work?"
"5 o'clock," she said.
"I'll be back," I said,
"and we can go to St. Peter's and make
the Stations of the Cross."
you can see that I'm trying
to bring women to the Lord.
So next week, no list.
I'll sit in the diner and swig
on a milkshake instead.
When I come into your box,
I'll fall on the kneeler
and whisper through the grille,
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
I did the same stuff this week
that I did last week
but this week I did it more often."
Father Paul, if I quit making lists,
this whole process
will be easier on both of us.
Who wants to hear a grown man
recite forever what Yogi Berra called
deja vu all over again?