DRIFT WOOD

You see, the ark wasn't mine.

I wasn't supposed to be on board.

We were all drinking, singing, howling

at the purple moon when the clouds came.

Twelve strings going out of tune in that rain

and the sweet cherry scent of Noah's pipe.

Two of a kind, he shouted. Two of a kind.

The children were scared so I sang:

These waves are God's busy hands.

The mothers took fright, so I prayed:

Your children are the hands of a busy God.

The men just muttered: Two of a kind,

that crazy poet and her pregnant lute.

PUBLISHED IN THE BUFFALO NEWS, MAY 29, 2011