Confession (a poem)

He’s been walking for hours
selling bibles to hotel managers
up in Cabarete
he had seen a movie once
a little girl and her father sold bibles
with names on the cover
in-scripted in gold
women’s names
who’s husbands just died
“What do you mean he’s dead?
he just ordered this last week”
he remembered the women's faces
as they read their shiny names
Poetry.
Dusk was coming
not a bible had been sold
Holy words can be a burden to a weak man
he thought
wishing he had a daughter
a son, a dog.