A Lenten Dirge
A Lenten Dirge
Ash Wednesday I saw Quinn again,
first time in years, sailing the streets,
weaving through people,
his collar up, his head cocked, his arms
like telephone poles sunk
in the pockets of his overcoat,
the brilliant pennants of his long red hair
waving over the stadium
where years ago he took my handoff,
bucked off guard, broke two tackles,
found the free field and heaved
like a bison into the end zone.
Today, when Quinn wove by me muttering,
I should have handed him the ball
and yelled, “Go, Quinn, go!”
With the crowd on its feet,
he'd stiff-arm the lamppost,
take the free field in stride,
leave all in his wake to gawk
till he hit the end zone
and circled the goal posts,
whooping and laughing,
flinging the ball like a spear
over the cross-bar, into Iraq.
Donal Mahoney
published in print at
The National Catholic Reporter
115 E. Armour Blvd.
Kansas City, MO 64111-1203
March 6, 2009
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
