The priest gave me a towel
to sit on so I wouldn't
burn the pew. If I plug
myself into the wall, I told him,
this whole place will come down
in flickering ashes. I confessed
to digging without purpose,
lifting with my lower back.
My punishment: the uncertainty
of a light switch, the haze
of the underside of the bed.
Fifty more days of winter.
I didn't even tell him
about the thirst for broken
bottles, the constant alarm.
I rub my forehead against the carpet
for forgiveness, resolve to put
the thermostat to rest, to keep cool
like the shell of a cockroach.
If you ask me, the priest
is just afraid of commitment.
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