This is not a Christian
Prayer but a message
Skipping the middleman
Straight to God,
The mailman for the dead.

Knowing that we can’t fool God,
I’m changing names
Because they were good guys,
Fellow teachers
Struggling to impart
Knowledge and skills
While being bad mouthed
By morally corrupt politicians
Hunting scapegoats
For a social virus.

Quinn, probably an atheist,
Never talked about God
Around the campfires
Where he shared
Stories of his seductions
On the couch
Next to his
High school
Science classroom.

I know what you
May be thinking,
But Quinn,
The fisherman,
Wasn’t like that.
There were no
Adolescent,
Student seductions.
Mothers were the target
During parent conferences
On the squeaky couch
In the seclusion of that
Office, store room.

It was a sad day
When they took
That old couch away.

Quinn’s dirty jokes were good too
Like the one about the guy stranded
On an island with
A male German shepherd
And a female pig,
A lusty story
Rife with jealousy
And a surprise ending
Followed by a roar
Of laughter.

Habib was Jewish
A former United States Marine like me.
He was closer to God;
A faithful, family man
That loved his wife
But not his mother-in-law.

I haven’t forgotten our attempt to
Climb five thousand feet
To the top of Old Baldy
Where the wind was fierce
With dangerous crusty
Snow on the ground
And black clouds swirling
Above our heads
Threatening to suck us into a caldron
Where the cold
Chased us back down the mountain
Before we reached the
Ten thousand foot summit.

That was only one of our
Risky, mountain adventures.

Let’s not make the mistake
That Habib was a saint.
He wasn’t.
He had flying,
Internet secrets
That I won’t tell.

In my book,
Both Quinn and Habib
Were cheated.

Habib struggled for years
To survive leukemia
Taking drugs that
Messed with his balance
Before death arrived
After falling down the stairs at home.

Quinn introduced me to wood carving.
We went weekly to the same
Knife wielding club.

Quinn was taken quickly once
The spreading cancer
Was discovered in his kidney.
Maybe he shouldn’t have
Started drinking that colloidal silver
He made in his garage.

Quinn was always willing to
Help old friends,
The good Samaritan
Fixing things
Like putting in a
Wheelchair ramp for free
For an old, retired
English teacher.

She misses him too!

I’m sixty-three.
Quinn and Habib were younger.
I’m hoping these
Death defying words
Help them live forever.

It would be ironic
If God judged frail,
Flawed humans
On their merits
Instead of by religion.
________________________________________

Discover the historical fiction novel, My Splendid Concubine, by Lloyd Lofthouse, (click here) at this AuthorsDen page.

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