‘The Box in The Corner’
© Joe Canning 2019. All Rights Reserved.
Psst! Psst! Psst! went their whispering lips
As they knelt in their frayed laddered stockings,
No tittling, no tattling, just Rosary beads rattling,
Most tired from long miles of walking.
Waiting and watching the Sacristy door,
For the man in the ankle length robe,
Armed with his power of forgiveness,
Awaiting the tales to be told.
A list of wrongdoings collected and stored,
Offloadings to stave the Lord’s wrath,
Telling their deeds through the mesh and the velvet,
Informing the men of the cloth.
Spilling their news to those listening ears,
That deem each confessor a child,
Who recognise voices they’ve known for years,
In a structure with darkness inside.
I heard a man say once that God will forgive,
When you speak with him no matter where,
That the box in the corner is purposely built,
‘for collecting the news; he declared.
And so I agreed with his convincing words,
No box in the corner for me,
I’ll speak and repent to Creator above,
They’ll get no information from me.
My old Irish mother would turn in her grave,
Disagree with these words that I write,
And warm my two ears with a lash of her tongue,
Or her hand, if the distance was right.
But each to their own is my motto in life,
And my business is that of my own,
Except for the Man that sees my every deed,
From His watch on celestial throne.
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