by Fr. Robert Phelps

the son of an Irishman
who dug graves
to lie down the dead
on Long Island,
a gentle, quiet man
who sat doll-like with his wife
in the back seat of the car
at the rail station in Garrison,
to bring them to you
on Visiting Sundays,
when Eisenhower was president
and you Joe, like me, were fourteen,
and dreaming, like me, of chasubles.

You were friends with my sister,
You buried my brother Tom,
and my Presbyterian grandmother.
You were the nemesis of my
adolescent daydreams of being
a great quarterback, as we played
innumerable games on the long field
at Hudson; and you laughed when I
accused you of intercepting me
two hundred times.

You braved the indignity of
being one of the Three Little Maids
From School, and threatened
serious physical harm if
anyone laughed at your powdered
cheeks and bright kimono.
When we performed The Mikado,
in the seminary.

You were a warm
and listening priest, and always
showed a deep concern for people,
all of them. All the time. 

You visited and played golf with me
on Guam and in Hawaii. No moss
growing under you, Joe. Rest in peace
and know that so many of us
smile when we think of you. Please
bless us laggards behind as we contemplate
that you will greet us again. Amen.

Fr. Robert Phelps, a published poet, entered the Capuchin Order with Fr. Joseph Flynn in 1958.