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...
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