Market Place Confessional
There is no screen between us
To cast diamond shadows
Across our faces,
And neither of us ask
For our father's forgiveness.
We speak in cracked voices,
Not in reverent whispers,
Because we sacrificed the sanctity of secrecy
There are words pluming –
Feathers of black ink from
The tips of our tongues –
In the stirred up air,
Making an ugly but necessary mess.
The silent strings finely strung
From my temple to yours
Are less visible.
You pluck a tune,
I strum a melody back
And so our minds play a violin concerto
That needn't be listened to
In order to be heard.
I stare down at the cracked cobbles
As we wander, pacing without purpose,
And I think of the stalls that usually perform
Upon this concrete stage.
Traders holler the face value of their goods
To a passing audience
In much the same way as our smiles
And those traders omit the details
Of the mould on the strawberries
At the bottom of the box.
We confess to omitting the details of our decay too.
But then it's done
And you still look at me the same,
And you don't give me ten Hail Marys to say,
Or a warning about heaven and hell
And the sanctity of life.
Dear friend, I think,
I'll see you again next week –
Same time, same place?