Confesses
Patrick T. Reardon
Clark Street this flat
morning is a god of
hardness, white in sun.
One-Cent watches the
Tower of Silence pull
her homeless luggage
north, her sock hat
tight on her head, her
dark glasses, a wall
before any eyes.
Watches thick-thighed
Eagle Air walk off his
run, a light sweat and
pleasant breathing,
northbound. Watches
stolid Child of the
Century in black suit,
white shirt, black tie,
head south to preach.
Child of the Century
confesses dementia,
confesses stoning the
saint, running of the
wrong race, buckling
on the vision, letting
free, letting go, letting
down, confesses tin
worthlessness, ten lies,
grain meaning, the
gospel of confusion.
A sparrow pecks
cement as if coding a
message to a soul long
gone, as if sewing a
stitch of reluctance, as
if calculating light-year
parables.
Count my bones.
Patrick T. Reardon
5.1.26
This poem was originally published at The Thieving Magpie, Issue 33, Spring 2026, on 3.21.26.
Written by : Patrick T. Reardon
For more than three decades Patrick T. Reardon was an urban affairs writer, a feature writer, a columnist, and an editor for the Chicago Tribune. In 2000 he was one of a team of 50 staff members who won a Pulitzer Prize for explanatory reporting. Now a freelance writer and poet, he has contributed chapters to several books and is the author of Faith Stripped to Its Essence. His website is https://patricktreardon.com/.