Mary, the big man, the deacon co-officiating, is Stuart Longtin. He was my high school quarterback when I was president of my high school. He also worked for me as a lifeguard when I ran Camp Wilderness. We'd been out of touch for forty years, but I wrote him a poem, which Poetry published two years ago.
Prison Chaplain
for Stuart Longtin
Heavy and grey now, dressed in deacon’s robes—
I see you in your Speedo at Floyd Lake,
its nylon clinging to those golden globes
you exercised for Moorhead football’s sake.
We hiked the Black Trail to Itasca Park,
but now I see a deacon hard at work
explicating the Gospel of St. Mark,
our high school quarterback become a clerk—
in the high sense. A boy with such good looks,
you could have run to Hollywood and whored
but turned to mastery of sacred books
and the manly mimesis of our Lord.
Lifesaver, that was your job at Wilderness,
teaching tenderfoot farm boys how to swim.
Soulsaver, I would call you now and bless
any man who preaches Saint Mark to Tim.
We take our coffee outside for the view,
patrol the walk-about with twelve-foot mesh
where drunks can smoke. What has become of Stu?
The Word. Not on the page but in the flesh.
Prairie St. John’s Hospital
You must hear the second Tube, my friend, for that is where Msgr Laliberte gets to his real theme, poetry. The Church adores poets, so it is no wonder they embraced Alan and me. As for Philip Quinlan? No comment.
Timothy
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