Here in the Diaspora

Will this endless praying ever end

so, it’ll finally be time to eat?

We’ve taken seats beneath the skylight

to be first to get the word–

but the late summer sun

plays hide and seek behind low clouds

and is still too high to lend much hope–

We’ll go along, though wary of the rabbi’s trick:

Let’s chant Al Heyt once more.

Yes, we’ve missed the mark—

we admit, and admit again—

but we’re tired and hungry, 

so let’s save some sorrow 

for what comes next.

Now we check the western window

and finally some proof.

We see how God separates night from day

with great but subtle intention—

we know this mostly from what we hear

since we forget most twilights to look—

content to sip our soup, ignore the kids,

unfurl our latest designs,—a sin temporal enough

to earn immunity all days–but not today.

For all our earnest talk,

peace seems far too far from here and now.

Give us back the dailiness of as is:

a piece of bread, a taste of wine,

the evening news droning our uncivil wars,

the sky above clogged with our filthy air.

We know three stars mark night from day,

but what if there are no more stars to see?

Here in this plush diaspora, why not three cars—

the latest models–Beemer, Tesla, Infiniti–

their headlights all ablaze?

Surely, our fate’s been sealed by now

and we’ve seen–for good and ill–

what the All-Seeing One has commanded us to see.

originally published in Verse-Virtual

Here in the Diaspora

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