If I Thought It Would Do Any Good
I’d Stand On the Rock Where Moses Stood
struggling for purchase, sandals biting
my bunions, juggling tablets and staff
gesticulating like a Mumbai traffic cop
yammering on and on to beat the band
words spirited off on a stiff breeze
folks on the margins drifting away
by twos and threes, giving wide berth
to the merchandise table, Porta Potties
plastered with wind-driven programs
raiment riding up my chilly backside.
Rather, you can find me at the beach
my old sea parting ways behind me
apples and some pencils in a canvas
ruck, thumb out for a passing whale.