Elegy For Butch Quinn, 1939-2006

Butch I’m writing this for you,

Who were an altar boy,

You, whose hero was Bo Diddly,

You, who as a young hot-rodder ran a Pennsylvania State Trooper off the road on

      Allegheny Avenue,

Who possessed an excessive fondness for alcohol and liked to fight

And got thrown out of bars,

You, whose visions cascaded before your eyes,

Whom someone called The Great Quinn,

Who dyed your white hair green for St. Patrick’s Day,

Who traded food stamps for beer,

Who called me an artist,

You were always glad to see me,

You, with whom I drank,

You, with whom I dreamed,

Whom I drove to the hospital one afternoon because your liver was doing flip-flops,

Who got sick in my car after an opening at the Meadville Market House,

Whose painting of an Indian I saw for sale on the sidewalk outside McArdle's gallery in Regent

      Square,

Who never stopped working even in the nursing home,

Who told me to keep the beads from Medjugorge for good luck even though I’m

      not Catholic;

None of these things were in your obituary.

                                                                                  
                                                                                                                                      Michael R. Hill