Prison Chaplain

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.