"Confession"
The pencil wedged between my fingers
does not drag its dull snout
across the white paper to please you.
The squirrel nests dotting these oak limbs
fanned against the gray sky like a blossom
of capillaries belong to me.
The jury of dark robed ravens
resting there on the telephone wire,
listening to a small boy
explain to his mother why he scurried
through the snow without his shoes, his socks.
All this is mine: raven, snow, mother, boy –
even the socks hidden under a cluster
of Oreo in the cookie jar’s quiet belly.
I unwrap each treasure like a chocolate bar,
indulge until my lips are black with sugar
and my fingers slick with my own saliva.
© 2007 S. Thomas Summers
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