Confessional

Pardon me if I go quiet a while. I do that,
perhaps more often than is polite.
I listen better than I speak,
born to the confessional like an old priest.

In time, they become all muddled.
all these furtive whisperings,
tale upon tale. I have trouble knowing
who lies to me, and who tells truth.

I am a poor judge. I believe so much
that in the end, I believe little. I simply listen
and watch the words and the actions and emotion
fall into place like a massive abstract puzzle,

the picture never evident
until the last piece falls into place.