Something distracted me; and then I heard The old monsignor describe one headline That he would never forget: Goodbye, Paul . . . The entire text of a suicide note, Taped to the Brooklyn Bridge by a young man Just before he leaped into the East River, And printed on front pages the next day. Then there was a slight pause in the sermon Just before his harsh voice rang out over The cathedral: You missed the boat, Paul As if the dead young man could hear him speak. Then the old priest told of a Chinese friend Who spent years in a Communist prison, And was released with half his fingers gone. It was a sermon about man’s despair, About a rational soul at a loss For a reason even to stay alive, And another with one that lasted him Through ten years of unbroken darkness. The priest in prison, his friend in the pulpit Suggested, had his simple faith, and hope, Which meant that no Brooklyn Bridge could tempt him, Whatever form it took, and no Daily News Forget him, as it would, as surely as The tide rolls over the place where Paul landed.