by Timothy Murphy
I cook. My dear monsignor comes tonight
for scallop jambalaya, for smoked fish
in a Cobb salad (with his dressing light
to deal with diabetes.) None could wish
more penetration of a sinner’s mind
than I, so long benighted I was blind.
I call ambition what the priest calls pride,
Superbia, the gravest mortal sin.
This saintly man my Lord took as his bride
looks in your eyes, but deeper, looks within
the Christian conscience where he would anneal
each bloodied soul the Sacred Heart can heal.