I confess. Did I not steal from the bowl
A dozen packets of raw sugar. Best not
Steal the fruit. Repeat life as a plum pit,
My chums laughing, their lips still moist
From coffee, doughnut, the raw sugar.
I confess. In a dream, I kiss those lips.
Taste life, not so much the sweetness,
As the scent of a rose on a fine table.
Would that I could gather up the rose,
The vase, the purified water. I confess
To everything: the bland, the sour,
The bitter. I confess to swallowing
the air around the table. No, I never
stole your tip or the delicious plum.
I took what luck gave, the raw sugar.