Birdy

My confession booth holds a barstool.

The choir sings for quarters

Beneath the neon-stained glasses.

The congregation curses, flirts, and weeps

While Frankie tends the altar rail.

 “Say three Johnnie Walkers, three Hail Marys.”

 

I pray a rosary around the circle of each empty glass,

Pressing wet halos into the wood.

Smudged mascara angels reach to comfort me

But I’m still in need of grace.

 

Frankie adjusts his collar,

Dries the cups with a clean, white cloth,

While my sins absolve in soapy sink water.