Geoff Goodfellow
A Cardinal Sin
I’d best describe myself
today
as a submarine catholic
but fifty years ago
well after my baptism
my first holy communion
& my confirmation
i would have likely said –
practising catholic
most friday nights back then
i’d find myself with Father
kneeling before him
on the carpeted step of the
confessional box
my little red face
pressed upwards to the grille
& even with that flimsy black
fabric shrouding the grille
i knew that he knew
who i was
as much as he knew
that i knew who he was
& after he’d dissolved a few
easy one’s like i swore
(he never asked what
particular words i’d used)
& after i’d admitted
i’ve been rude to my mother
(he never asked what
my behaviour had been)
& after i’d mumbled
i missed mass last Sunday
(he never asked
if i’d been to mid-week mass)
but always after i’d told him
i’ve had obscene thoughts again
he questioned me at length –
& lingered over this . . .
wanting to know each
& every detail
& by george
i think i’ve finally
worked out why.
Bigger is Better
It is 4:49pm on a mid-June Monday
& i have been scouring
the net & stopped for a break
i read that today Joe Hockey won
the golden toilet brush award
from Parliament House cleaners
the last item i looked over was
an image of Joe Hockey’s $5.4 million
Hunter’s Hill mansion
from my first floor bedroom rental
above St Vinnies on Semaphore Road
i look down onto shiny wet bitumen
at the stainless steel shrouded council bin
stands a middle-aged lady with damp
greying hair & two plastic shopping bags
she is hand fishing for ten cent refundables
in the late afternoon gloom
she too needs to find a better job.
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