Moses came down from the mountain,
plenty tired and more than a little singed
from the nearness of the flame and, let’s face it,
wandering through the desert is no picnic, 
despite the occasional, and incidental, shrubbery.
The hungry folks who’d dragged their feet till now, 
kvetchy, out-of-sorts, weary of promises— 
no milk and honey far as they could see—
and when he arrived, he expected a welcome? 
Man, what’d you expect while you were gone so long? 
Who wouldn’t have worshipped the golden onion,
or at least danced around its root, if only for dreams 
of some yet-to-be fried potatoes.

He was finally spotted out the corner of one reveler’s eye,
but no one shouted from joy, Hey, Moses is back!
He muttered to himself something like: We are things of dry hours
and the involuntary plan—and knew this 
was not gonna be an easy sell, 
especially for a guy slow of speech 
who dropped into this rent party— while not totally uninvited—
with not much of a plan—
everybody knowing of his checkered past,
and, let’s face it, no track record for bringing home the bacon.
And what was this he was carrying in his arms?
More unpaid labor nobody was exactly praying for.

When sick and tired of prayers ignored,
in my long encounter with our boorish lord, 
I call upon the one who wedded old I Am.  
(Not empty-headed Maryam
who was in truth no innocent, liked to flaunt
her ascetic ways, at least in the account 
I’ve got, wine-induced, direct from the Mrs. 
who when sobered up, usually dismisses 
such rumors, but when generously lubed
can make trouble at home, or in markets abroad.)

Mrs. God can remember, Where the hell’s the remote?
Mrs. God can figure out what tie might work 
with that god-awful shirt.
Mrs. God can cook up a storm 
when the boss drops by unexpected. 
And when Mr. Bluster beats his chest,  
claims vengeance is mine,
and starts in to curse like a sailor, 
she soothes him with a simple,
Why don’t we talk about it first?

Sometimes this works.