An Absolution

Cathedral bells toll midnight, end
of bacchanal, and quiet falls,
a welcome pall over revelers who seek
sleep.
Too soon, they wake and dress for work,
ignore the litter in the streets: cheap beads,
doubloons, plastic cups, cigarette butts,
sticky coins and soggy bills—real currency
amid the trampled trash.
They stop at church
to receive the yearly absolution,
the smudge of ash, the dark cross drawn
where hangover throbs—
          Forgive me, Father, for I have
sinned—
It was a blast!
One for the record books!
Sure to go down in history!
The priest’s thumb traces cross after cross,
his voice drones on. Something about dust.

In a musty room in a shotgun house, someone sobered
by the impossible reunion in her dream
dates a page, inks the loved one’s name, and writes,
          I’m sorry, please forgive me—

Guilt begets another lie.

This city trusts new rain
to clean the streets, to wash away
all sin and stain. They trust that new forgiveness
offers a clean slate, a fresh chance
to make the same mistakes.

Not sorry, no,
not her. She slashes through her words,
rips the letter to confetti—
while in the Quarter,
the first saxophone’s blue notes growl and purr:
just another busker angling for loose change.