If only we had never sinned
so I might, as Adam before the apple,
say, “Morning, Father! How are you today?”
And hear Him answer, not
“Have you considered my servant, Job?”
or, “Saul! Saul! Why are you persecuting Me?”
But, rather, “Fine son! Doin’ good!
How do you like that silly lookin’ platipus
I just made?”
For some reason, unfathomable to me, Father
never pronounces His final “g” or learned to spell,
correctly,
Ah, yes. If only.
Poems by Ken 