The S.S. Hopeless and Helpless (a "brabazonian ghazal")

On this ship where I’ve been toiling for many years as the crew,

I’m grateful my fortune has seen to it, somehow, that the Captain is You.

I appear completely disheveled as we sail the open sea.

Then, as we steam into port: You do a makeover on me!

No longer a slob, I punctually keep all the appointments You’ve made.

When we leave a few days later, we’ve done brisk, useful trade.

I am the lone witness to these miracles of transformation,

becoming smartly dressed, eloquent, appropriate to each situation.

As we chug back out toward the next destination, I look down and see

once more a ragged tee shirt and baggy pants covering me.

I begin again to toil at each assigned menial task.

Once in awhile, You stop by and offer a swig from Your wine cask.

That sustains me! The best and worst of my lot is that no one else can see You.


Their faces show pity or awe—whichever is Your Whim’s wish—at the things I say and do.