Ghazal
for Kenny Przybylski
(Riffs on lines by the poet
Ghalib)
“No wonder you came looking for me, you
who care for the grieving, and I the sound of grief”
After
high school in Winona, your parents astonished and angry,
You
joined the Franciscans, Little Brothers of the Poor of St. Francis,
Living
in Simplicity, in imitation of the life of the great saint
Who
stayed close to his own suffering and forever cared for the grieving.
Working
with “bad boys,” delinquents, incorrigibles,
Abandoned
detritus of a brutal society.
They
gave you a religious name, “Masseo,”
An
early companion of Francis in Assisi,
And
you lived up to the name, staying close to suffering,
And
laughter, fun, practical jokes.
After
six years of this life, you get kicked out.
Who
gets kicked out of the Franciscans?
Well
not exactly kicked out, “asked to leave.”
They
were right, of course, your vocation was stranger, more complicated.
A
vagabond life, some time in jail, picking apples in Wisconsin,
Oranges
around Tarpon Springs, time at the Catholic Worker,
Sometimes
finding food in a dumpster behind the Piggily-Wiggily.
(Easter
breakfast, 1977!).
We
all recognized your holiness and your craziness, your unusual ministry.
Wanted
to be around you as you ministered to our grieving, the sound of grief,
Stayed
close to suffering. And in the end, as you lay dying of AIDS
In
a Franciscan hospital in Tampa
(You
tried to ride there, from New Orleans to Tampa,
on your bicycle to visit Joanie)
In
the end, full circle, surrounded by Terri, Peggy, Joanie, Chuck,
The
Franciscans, keeping watch over your suffering, your sound of grief,
Still
blessing everyone in your luminous circle,
Ever
the Francis, wounds on the hands, feet, chest.
Listen, Bob Coughlin, this amazing blessing, rubbing
shoulders
With this ragged funny saint, who forever cared for
the grieving,
Stayed faithful and close to our own suffering
The song of our grief.
Robert M. Coughlin/October
25, 2002
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