He has traveled so far, he must sleep now
the profound sleep of the laborer.
Fluorescent lights dangle like white monsters.
Slowly his universe magnifies
to four green walls, wool blanket, wicker bassinet.
Thrust from the thrum of the dark world
he hears sounds deep as drums:
voices he will one day claim as his own.
Theos doro. Te adoro. Dio d’oro.
Prayer for the gift of God.
A Prayer to the God of golden chances.
The newly voiced soul stirs in the unfused crown,
elsewhere spent souls rise like mites of dust,
descend into sanitized corners, cluster then disappear.
In a metal cabinet, desire waits. Despair. Death too.
The moon face of the wall clock tick-tocks the minutes,
his chest draws in another 44 newborn breaths.
Pocketful of flesh, he moves like an amphibian, gropes
by touch, by scent. Trawls for what sustains him, sustains us all.
This poem also appears in the September 2024 issue of U.S. Catholic (Vol. 89, No. 9, page 8). Click here to subscribe to the magazine.
