BY ALISSA LEIGH
Map of terror and pleasure,
ardent junk, passionate congress
filled with the arguments of chemicals,
Echo chamber for the fanatical cries
of stubborn generations, all the quaint invisibles
death has grown a beard on,
labyrinth of desire, playing field of impulse,
factory where decay’s silent armies clock in,
philosopher-clown blowing a horn at each epiphany.
Washed by the rough nurse of morning,
wheeled into the ward of the afternoon,
feeds, grateful, on the rich broth of dusk.
Reads the erratic cards of dreams,
turns on the rack of insomnia,
steals the two-bit grace of sleep.
Loses its name in foreign embraces,
forges a passport to the country of tenderness,
gestures like a child at the thing that it wants,
opaque from its own breath on the glass.
Source: Poetry (December 2002).
A Word, Please. . . 
God awakens us to the needs of others.
If we pay attention we are blessed to be a companion on the journey and respond with mercy and love as Pope Frances prescribes .
I pray that I am never to busy to notice
the prompting of the Spirit!
For it is in giving that we receive
and in dying that we are born to eternal life.
Saint Frances
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